Et tu, My Love?
by Zepper
Summary: Five years after Nocht (the Avatar) disappeared into thin air, Ylisse's hope has been abandoned. Even her husband, Chrom, has moved on - choosing to remarry rather than live alone. When she finally awakens, a new threat brews in the south. Can she cope with a new political enemy, let alone the ragged scars Chrom left behind?
1. Chapter 1

The morning air was brisk with frozen humidity. The clouds couldn't decide whether to precipitate or let their wet insides fester. Cordelia stood before him, bright eyes alight with unshed tears. She was unsure, much like the clouds, whether to let them fall. She was his nation's most legendary woman – _alive _woman – and if she succumbed to joyous tears, the rest of Ylisse would follow.

Her hair fell in ringlets about her shoulders – she had been primed and preened for this momentous occasion. She was the blazing fire to his cold indifference, and her smile was more radiant than anything that had ever graced him.

_She's beautiful. Truly, beautiful. _

But the pang of guilt never subsided, even though the guilt was irrational. It had already smothered his soul long ago, and Cordelia was the only thing that dammed its advances from the rest of his being.

_"Every day, I ask myself: 'Nocht, what have you done to deserve someone who makes your heart beat with more fury than a Pegasus' wings? How did you end up with the greatest man in all Ylisse; he who can make you laugh and sing without even trying? He who can make your tears evaporate and replace them with a warmth the likes of which your soul can barely contain?' You are my life, Chrom. Without you to hold me up, I would surely have fallen apart."_

He cursed himself. She's gone now. Been that way for five years. Everyone had moved on.

Despite what he had promised her, despite the determination he had felt that day, he had finally given up. He was tired of waking with no one by his side – so very tired of watching as the earth kept turning without her. Without Nocht, no person alive could keep the Shepherds together. One by one, hope dwindled and dissipated. It was abandoned to the swirling churn of the Great Eddy; the ever present turning of the Earth.

Chrom had realized it was Kellam, first, who had left. Then, Panne and Gregor. No amount of respect for him, the king, could make them stay. Only their love for Nocht. Eventually, Lissa and Henry left. His own sister. Frederick, his closest friend, followed suit with Sumia. They had all abandoned the search, however. They could move on. They needed to. Even he had begun to lose hope. His promise to her seemed naïve and ridiculous, for his hope was already evaporating. It only took him five years to finally realize he had none left.

The priest looked at him expectantly. Shaking, Chrom threw himself off the precipice into the black abyss below, and murmured, "I do."

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading this fic! You're awesome :D**


	2. Chapter 2

They had not bothered to consummate their marriage. He and Cordelia had already made love months prior, when his grief was at its greatest, and her compassion was at its zenith.

Nor had they worried about heirs. Lucina was almost six years old, and it's not as though he needed to worry about Morgan having been conceived.

The future Morgan was still gone. Searching for his mother, no doubt. _It's a futile fight. Even if she _did _come back, there was no room for her. Not when she has already been replaced. _

He could still remember the anger in Morgan's eyes when Chrom had announced his remarriage. _He was a young man, full of hormones and unfamiliar emotions, _he had thought at the time. So he watched as Morgan stormed out of the room, and left shocked silence in his wake. No one had been ready, Chrom then realized. Especially not _her own _son. Owain had followed, eager to aid his angered friend. _Well, they can commiserate together. The rest of us will reap the benefits of moving on. That's all there is in the world, now. Reaping the benefits of the past, and trying to forget the consequences._

* * *

"Sacred Swo-ord!" Owain yelled at the top of his lungs. He did feel mildly guilty for not doing something more productive, but both he and Morgan needed the normalcy duels inspired. It reminded them of a time when Nocht was still...

_Nocht._

Her face lingered in his eyes. Her twinkling opals never failed to take his breath away. Always, he had been jealous of Chrom. But Owain had known his place. He was the foolish child everyone admonished and chastised. _Except her._

She had always praised his creativity. She told him his poetry made her soul lighter, and his fiction made her laugh. She didn't see him as a child. She saw him as a budding author, filled to the brim with creative paraphernalia for his stories.

He had finally heeded her advice, and published some of his works. They were popular - surprisingly so. He managed to rake in quite a lot of coin. The main demographic that fancied his stories were young teenagers, but he didn't mind. He was simply glad _someone _out there appreciated his writings almost as much as -

Morgan deflected Owain's sword hand, and conjured a ball of energy between his palms. It swirled like an eddy. Green and blue, mostly, with a hint of deep brown. _That must be what the cartographers think the world looks like._

'Earthly . . . Abyss!" Morgan launched the orb. As the frothing mass approached Owain, it grew. So wide was it, that he couldn't dodge.

"Mooooorgaaaaa-"

* * *

"Phew, you're finally up. I was worried!"

Owain blinked. His eyes were dreadfully sore.

He was situated upon something soft. A bed, perhaps? _Yes,_ he decided. Definitely a bed.

As he looked up into Morgan's face, a dark feeling of betrayal threatened to blacken his heart. "So, conniving villain! Finally come to finish me off, then? Oh, evil betrayer – so shattered was my soul, I feared I might not wake. Lo, when I glimpsed your features upon my return, I vowed to visit vengeance upon you and all heathens born of you! Alas, the time for retribution is nigh! Die, fien-"

"Owain. The magic was harmless. The reason your head hurts is because you tripped."

Owain blanched, monologue dying in his throat. That's a shame. It was one of his better ones, too.

"Somehow, your head sought out the meanest looking rock in the field. I'm glad you're alright."

Rubbing his neck in embarrassment, Owain smiled. "Well, such is the way when a hero's mind is . . ."

An ominous thud resounded outside the door of their cabin. Turning toward the sound, Owain crept up to the implement of separation. As his hand hovered over the handle, he put his ear to the wood, and heard a pained breathing.

He turned to Morgan, who nodded.

Drawing his sword, Owain turned the handle.

Maidenly fingers curled around the door, uncut nails making the already spindly fingers even longer. The hand was pale as death.

When the door swung wider, the world stopped.

_Nocht . . ._

Her hair was plastered to her body, framing her curves in the dying light. Eyes no longer fluorescent, but dull and sad, held his captive. He couldn't tell if it was the rain or her tears that fell from her cheeks. He couldn't turn away. Her sadness spread into him, flowing over his heart like the tide.

Morgan was the first to move. After running to her, he clutched his mother to his chest, sobbing.

"I thought I'd lost you! I never . . ."

"Morgan," Owain managed. His voice was as distraught as Morgan's, but he tried to stay calm. "She needs clean robes, Morgan."

Immediately, Morgan ran off. Owain wondered if he would come back with Nocht's Tactician robes.

Scooping her into his arms, he avoided eye contact. He didn't want to see the sadness again. Those eyes that should have been happy, or even empty, housed a complete despair he had never seen from her. She had always been cynical, he knew. It had been charming, though. Her dry humor always brought a smile to his face, despite the clash between his optimism and her cynicism. It was one of the reasons he loved -

He immediately stopped. His pulse beat loudly, seeming to resound through the quiet house.

_Loved?_

He felt something cool caress his face. Finally, he looked down. Her cold fingers traced his jawline, and wiped away a tear he hadn't known he'd shed.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

Nocht's face remained impassive. He wasn't even sure she'd heard him.

Morgans feet thundered down the hall. Quickly, he placed the frail body upon the bed.

"I'll get her changed," Morgan said, quietly. "You get her some hot water."

Owain simply nodded.

What would she see, when she awoke from her delirium? She seemed to be in shock, much like his mother described when Chrom and Lissa had found her.

_Don't hate us. _He pleaded silently. _We tried. Oh, how we tried . . ._


	3. Chapter 3

"Lucina," Gerome chuckled. Seeing her cook always lifted his spirits. She was brandishing a knife as she hacked away at the roast they would have for dinner. With flour and spices peppering her face, she turned to him.

"Oh, hey, Gerome." Lucina reached her arms out to hug him. Upon realizing she still wielded the implement of death, she placed it on the counter with a blush.

Gerome handed her the mail. "We've received word from your brother. Hopefully, it's not more drabble about the importance of Owain's work on Ylisse's economy."

Lucina brushed his hair out of his eyes with a smile. "Yes, well, at least my brother knows his economics," she offered hopefully.

Gerome harrumphed.

It had been hard, these past years. She was glad Gerome had stood by her when her mother vanished into thin air. She remembered how she cried. Violent sobs that rendered her unable to speak for days afterward. She wanted to leave the Shepherds after that. She had known the need to leave; to give her future self the chance for a normal family. _Well, as normal as a motherless family could be._ She postponed her parting, however. Her love for her father was strong, and she wanted to help him choose a suitable nanny for the child. The interviews were a bit... odd, she'll admit. She was Lucina, after all. Eventually, she and Chrom had settled upon Cordelia.

Then Cordelia's advances happened. Oh, Lucina had known. Everyone did. Cordelia's love for Chrom knew no bounds. But was it wrong? When she found out Chrom and Cordelia had spent the night together, Lucina wanted to kill Cordelia. _Kill. _

She had felt betrayed. By her father, foremost. _How _dare _he cheat on her mother? _Then Lucina realized the pain he must also feel; the despair they all felt. _As Gerome helped me, so must Cordelia help Father,_ she reasoned. But "help"was a funny term. "Help" didn't mean "have sex with".

It was in this disposition that she leafed through Morgan's missive.

It was in this disposition she read the simple words "Chrom remarried."

It was in this disposition she stormed out of the house in full armor, wielding the parallel Falchion in the name of her mother.

_No one_ could replace her. And she'll kill Cordelia for trying.

* * *

"Lucina? We'd heard you had arrived in Ylisstol, but - "

"Silence, you _adulteress!_" Lucina held Falchion against Cordelia's throat. Blood began trickling down her victim's neck. The color was the same as Cordelia's hair. _Fitting_, Lucina thought with a bitter smile. _Fitting that you always wore your scarlet intentions on your sleeve, you heartless adulteress._

"Lucina!" She heard her Father bellow from somewhere behind her. It didn't matter. What mattered was his betrayal.

She felt guards trying to restrain her. _Fools. _She swatted them away like flies. Then her father was upon her.

Her cheek stung. It hurt more than anything she had ever received. More, even, than when she was impaled by Grima's dark magic.

"Lower your sword!" The words shot through her like the sharpest pike. _How? How could this happen? _But Lucina knew the importance of Ylisse having a woman leader. Someone who gave the mothers hope in times of famine, and who reached out to other nations in diplomacy. She knew the impact a woman had on the world, but it didn't hurt any less.

The young Lord relented, falling upon the floor in despair.

"Mother!" Lucina sobbed the word. She screamed and wailed until the entire court had left, all except her father.

"Lucina," the Exalt put a comforting hand on his daughter's shoulder.

"_How could you?" _She whispered. Standing up, she slammed the tip of Falchion into the marble to steady herself. Lucina couldn't look at him. Her chest was tight and suffocating. Looking at the grief she knew her father's eyes held would hurt even more. After she walked over the threshold, and left the castle behind her, she turned to Gerome. He had been wandering the stables with Minerva, awaiting the choice he knew Lucina would have to make.

"Let's see Morgan."

Gerome nodded assent. Morgan's optimism might hurt, but it was better than the cruel indifference this city held.

* * *

Owain read one of his latest manuscripts aloud to Nocht. She seemed to be enjoying it. Though he couldn't exactly know for sure. Since she was asleep.

He heard a chuckle rumble from beside him. The storyteller looked up from the pages, his tired eyes searching the dimly lit room.

"Oh. Hello, Morgan."

"How goes the reading?" Morgan set down two bowls of soup.

_Funny, I didn't even notice he had been cooking._

They both turned when an aggressive knock disturbed the still night.

Owain watched Nocht, concerned, as she turned in her sleep.

"I'll check it out," Morgan stood back up, walking towards the door.

"Morgan, I'm coming in!"

He didn't even need to open the door. It was kicked awry by a distressed Lucina. "Morgan, I-"

Her breath caught. She saw the hair first, spilling over the edge of the bed - the same russet brown that haunted her dreams.

"Mother!" Lucina dropped her bag, running across the room. She pushed Owain aside, who grunted irritably.

She cupped her mother's still face. It was warm, thankfully. Warm, and with that slight red tinge on the point of her nose that always made Lucina remember her mother's youth. Owain and Morgan retreated out of the small cabin, leaving Lucina alone with the sleeping form.

They and Gerome sat around the campfire Morgan had built a few nights ago.

"She tried to kill Cordelia." Gerome's words were unsurprising.

Owain didn't feel especially sorry for Cordelia. Maybe if Nocht had been another woman. If it had been someone else who had been betrayed, someone whose strength didn't rival that of the coldest Feroxi winter, then perhaps no one would be so shaken. _It's hard, seeing someone who was the light of everyone's life fall away. Then to have her replaced like it was nothing. . ._

_ "_Owain?"

He blinked, turning towards the sound.

"Yes, Gerome?"

"Is she going to wake?"

Owain's heart tightened. He turned his face so his friends couldn't see the pain.

"Yes. And when she does, she'll regret coming back to the world she saved."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry for the choppy writing style, but I enjoy it :P The implied happenings get the readers' minds to imagine what was going on between the lines :)**


	4. Chapter 4

He had been wandering the lonely halls of the Exalt's palace for hours, searching for his beloved.

"_How could you?" _

Chrom wasn't sure. He knew he no longer had a heart. It had shattered when Nocht pushed him aside to land the final blow. The remaining shards blew away on the wind when she turned to him, and whispered a last goodbye.

The Exalt looked to the bleak, dark sky for answers, but he received no guidance from his namesake.

He sighed. _Naga herself said she was no god. She cannot help me, now._

* * *

Finally, he found her. Cordelia's bright hair hovered above something (_A book about javelins, I'm sure, _he mused.), her shoulders bent. She looked so fragile, a complete juxtaposition from the radiant strength she usually retained.

"Cordelia?"

She turned to him.

He was amazed by her eyes. Somehow, even on the day they were wed her eyes reflected the skies – just as they did now.

They were puffy and swollen, with deep, angry bruises beneath. The saltwater trickled down her beautiful skin, making it glisten in the dim light. Her eyes were subject to the violence of leaving sadness unheeded for so long; when one holds back tears for months on end.

"Chrom, what have we _done?_"

Swirling microcosms bore into him. Her formidable features were perverted by such an unjust sadness. In naught but a second, he was by her side.

She needed to know that he had no regrets. Everything had been right...

"We did nothing wrong, my love." He tried to still her aching sobs with his arms. Perhaps, if he held her closely enough, he would be able to cure the coldness in both their hearts.

The Lord of Ylisse knew how to calm his subjects. Perhaps this simply required yet another display of his legendary skill.

She brought his hand up to her neck, where the faint line from Lucina's Falchion had bitten into the delicate skin.

He didn't want to remember. His child, his _daughter, _had felt betrayed._ By me. _He wondered, absently, if the six year old child could feel her twin's anger.

"_How could you?"_

He had slapped her. So hard, he saw the bruise forming before he'd even retracted his hand.

_Oh, my daughter. I have failed you. I have failed you, and nothing in my power will ever rectify what I have done to you._

The worst part of it all was the aching feeling in his gut – this ominous blackness - that reminded him of what Naga had said. If their bonds had been stronger, perhaps Nocht...

_No. I will not give in to false hope. Not again. I have done nothing wrong. She's gone. She will never come back._

"No, Cordelia." He brought his fingers up to her face, to rub away the tears and warm her cheeks.

They leaned against one another, foreheads resting on each others' desperate need for assurance.

As the Exalt and the Legend stood with one another, they knew how alone they were. The Shepherds were gone, and only this downcast, rainy city cared about their fake smiles.

He cleared his throat, trying to will away the lump that had settled there.

"Our souls may be torn, but I swear to you that I love you more than life itself, and nothing else matters."

_More than life itself? What a fool I am. Life means nothing to me._

"Whatever may come," he continued, "I will be glad to meet it with you at my side."

"Chrom," Cordelia brought her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. "Thank you. I wondered, sometimes. You were the man I could never have, my love that could never be returned. But..." Another sob shook her. "Here we are, the only people holding each other up."

Chrom rested his chin upon her hair, and wondered if giving in would be easier.


	5. Chapter 5

Nocht rested against a tree, panting. She had managed to awaken whilst the small cabin was devoid of life, except her own.

_They were in town, perhaps._

Town. Ylisstol? Lucina!

She needed to see her daughter, needed to know how long she had been gone -

Nocht's legs gave out - due to shock, maybe - and landed on a root that forced the breath from her lungs.

What were these _memories?_

She had awoken with her life intact, mostly. She remembered her daughter, her love, Chrom. She remembered their trials throughout Ylisse and Valm. But the rest...

Horrible memories, of her past self giving in to Grima. Nocht hypothesized that, because Grima – her evil self – had been slain in this time line, that the memories returned to her.

_Is this what would happen if Lucy died? Her thoughts would be deposited into baby Lu-_

Her chest hitched. _My baby._

"Mother!" A voice cried out behind her. A fool she must look, sprawled on the ground. But the voice was indeed familiar, albeit deep.

She felt arms encircling her waist, lifting her up to meet worried eyes.

"Morgan!"

They embraced, with the only sound surrounding them being their loud thoughts and unsaid emotions.

Upon release, Nocht deftly wiped away Morgan's tears, noting how much he had grown.

She chuckled, ruffling his hair. "You know, I remember a certain someone whining about how he was shorter than his mother."

A wet laugh bubbled from Morgan's throat as he rubbed his eyes. But it was real. His first real laugh in what felt like decades. "Well, now look who's the shortest!"

He stood a head taller than her. Perhaps more, since she was perched on the offending root.

Nodding, she rubbed his back methodically, as all mothers seem to intrinsically know how to do. "You've certainly grown."

"Well, it _has _been five years."

"F-"

"Mother?"

"F-" She couldn't get the words out. Nocht stumbled, falling against him. Then, everything went dark.

She woke to a blazing sun, and a ladybug trying to traverse the mountain that was her nose. She squinted, feeling her retinas burn.

"Mother, are you alright?"

The tactician in her wondered at the possibilities of how to answer such a question. A joke, perhaps. Dry, with hidden meaning. No. A simple question would do. Yes; she would ignore his question completely, and substitute her own.

"Where is Lucina? Where is Chrom?"

She couldn't see his face, but she could feel the air stiffen about him.

"They're in Ylisstol, Mother. But..."

The Tactician could almost hear the cogs churning in his mind, as his emotions fought one another. Finally, empty mirth reigned victorious.

"We'll go, of course. We just... we need to make you aware of what has transpired."


	6. Chapter 6

She screamed into the sky, venting her anger in the only form she could. She beat her fists against the muck, flailing blindly.

The air was alive with electricity, and she heard the thunder boom above her, shaking her very core.

Nocht ceased her useless fight, opting to stand erect on the mountain.

"Very well, Naga!" She yelled, to no one. "Tell me why! Tell me why you brought me back to..."

The hot, aggressive feeling goading her on suddenly dissipated. She looked down at her bloodied hands. The mud was slowly sliding from her fingers, banished by the fat drops of rain falling from the heavens.

Finally, she whispered: "Back to a world where no one needs me."

There it was again; this odd feeling. She couldn't place it, really. Much like a Mire tome, it poisoned her body, causing her to shake uncontrollably. But it went deeper, as well. Her very muscles ached, and her joints were so stiff. She couldn't think - couldn't reason her way through this jumbled mess that was her mind, as much as the tactician in her needed to. She didn't want to stand anymore. She didn't want to move at all.

_I just want to disappear, again. What's the point of being alive if everything you lived for doesn't need you?_

_Doesn't _want _you._

Oh, how stupid she'd been. Yes, when she told _him _she'd wanted to "create new memories". Is that what she'd do now? Try to smother this odd blackness in her gut with meaningless thoughts and gestures? No. She was broken. No one had the power to save a broken soul. Not _his_ foolish diatribe, not anyone's ridiculous, empty assurances that she'll make a new life for herself.

_It's just like before. Only now, I have the memories. I have a past. I have..._

Pain.

It was all her heart felt, now.

* * *

"Owain!"

He saw Lucina's form running toward him. The beautiful backdrop of the thunderous clouds cast her silhouette in shadow. As the inky shade closed in, he noticed a tight despair in Lucina's expressive face.

"I can't find Mother!"

* * *

He and Gerome had been searching the highlands on Minerva. It had not been easy; wyverns and rain do not go well together.

Morgan and his sister scoured the field where he and Owain had been dueling just a few days before.

The same field Nocht had awoken in all those years ago.

"_It's perfect, Owain! I bet if she comes back, she'll end up here, of all places! Like mother, like son, right? I know, you'll have your sword hand to worry about, but let's just settle down here until Lyram dies down. We can't go there until Chrom decides whether or not to heed your advice. Besides, perhaps Mother will show up!"_

_And now that she has, Morgan? Now what do we do?_

Owain feared an approaching war. Lyram's influences were strong, and their democratic way of life was eating away at Chrom's hold over the southernmost parts of Ylisse. It would have to be addressed, and soon.

But now is not the time.

They needed to find Nocht, before she killed herself in this downpour.

* * *

"There." Gerome gestured to a minute blotch on one of the hillsides surrounding the cabin.

"Gerome..."

"I know. She must have been walking for hours, to get this far." The stoic wyvern rider sighed, "I'll let you talk sense into her. I need to alert the others."

Owain nodded, feeling nerves tingling in his fingertips.

_Me? Comfort Nocht?_

"I'll do my best."

After Gerome deposited Owain on the muddy slope, he began his trek upwards. It was almost impossible. The sheets of rain bore into his back, urging him to fall and tumble into the muddy abyss at the foot of the hill.

"_Hill" isn't a strong enough word._

It was more of a mountain. A lone spire cutting into the sky. And Nocht was at the top, preparing to jump off, he guessed.

"_This isn't like her, Owain. She doesn't run away. When I... When I told her I needed to kill her to save Father, she wouldn't let me. She said we needed to stay together. _He remembered Lucina sobbing into his shoulder. The two strongest women he had ever known, reduced to tears and despair. "_'You and Chrom and I are family. You only get one of those.' And now, she's lost even that. Don't let her give in. Even if she thinks she has nothing to live for... We'll find something. We have to._

We have to.

Finally, he reached the apex. She was no longer standing. Her form was crumpled; a frail body lost in robes.

He was a fool to think she would kill herself. She no longer cared enough to try.

Owain sat beside her, putting his arm around the fallen tactician and drawing her toward him.

"Give me a purpose."

Owain's eyebrows shot upward, and he turned to heed the sound.

"I need a reason, Owain."

_Me. Let _me_ be your reason._

He looked toward the black froth churning before them. Now is not the time for unrequited love. Now is the time for action. Before she recedes further into herself.

"Your daughter needs you, Nocht. Don't quit her now. Not after going through Hell and back."

She wasn't even sobbing. Her face was pale and dead, unlike her eyes.

No, those chasms were just like when they had found her, outside their door. Utter despair.

He took her by the shoulders, turning her so they would be face to face.

"Your legend is not done yet, Nocht. An ill presage flows from the South, and Ylisse's greatest tactician will be needed in the tension that is sure to follow. We must stay vigilant!"

Her head lolled to the side. She was already gone. Broken.

"What ill presage?"

Owain looked away. No one had listened to him before. Not when he warned Chrom of the danger the priests of Lyram posed to Ylisse's way of life. But Nocht used to listen him – she'd always given him a chance. He prayed this time would be no different.

"Come with me, and I'll tell you."


	7. Chapter 7

Chrom grunted as he stumbled over a rock that had evaded his vision. He was a bit soft around the edges, sure. The steps up to the open treetop on which he now stood had winded him. It was his first time visiting the grounds since they recruited Tiki.

The manakete should still be here.

"_The Lyram priests have already begun converting our subjects, Chrom!" Cordelia snapped, drawing his attention away from the map of Ylisse laying before them on the table. _

_She circled Lyram, the continent to the south, then shaded in the southernmost regions of Ylisse. _

"_They have erected chantries in these towns, here, in Nila's name. They're crying out for hedonism, Chrom. We must stop them before this disease spreads any further."_

"_So you're buying Owain's ridiculous conjectures, now?" Chrom retorted, irritated that Cordelia was already flaunting her authority. It was an irrational gripe, and he wasn't quite sure why he was feeling it. _Stress, perhaps?_ "Have you stopped to consider this might just be another of his stories?"_

_She slammed her palms on the table, exasperated. "Do you remember the riot a year ago? The Southerner's Riot, they aptly call it. The southern regions whined about the troops stationed in their towns, even though their towns are prone to bandit raids. Three days after rioting -"_

"_I know, Cordelia. The bandits attacked. But-"_

"_No 'but's, Chrom. If those soldiers had not been stationed there, the rioters would surely have perished. Do not doubt, if the people had their way, they would lead Ylisse to ruin. They need a learned leader, and the majority is most certainly not learned. The tyrant they claim a monarch is pales in comparison to the tyranny of the majority our subjects would elicit. Less than three percent of the population can even read, Chrom! And now you doubt that a democracy for Ylisse would be detrimental?"_

_Cordelia then sighed, turning away from him. "It is your duty to protect Ylisse from its neighbors, and from itself. If you doubt our motives, for a moment, then you are not being the king your subjects need."_

This hurt the most. He had always striven to be someone worthy to follow in his sister's path. _Perhaps Cordelia was right. _What would you do, my sister?

"_Very well, Cordelia. I will do as you ask, if only for the people."_

_She nodded, falling into a chaise by the bay window. "Visit Tiki. She's lived through countless eras of kings. Perhaps she'll have advice for ours." She offered him a diplomatic smile, and he acquiesced._

How he managed to become Cordelia's bitch, he wasn't sure. However, Cordelia did have a good argument, and he vowed he would comply out of love for his people, and his love for her.

So here he was, panting, waiting for Tiki to show her face. And show her face she did.

The manakete swirled overhead, finally landing several feet in front of him. He was buffeted by wafts of air, which caused him to stumble backward. The Lord thrust the Exalted Falchion into the ground to prevent from being blown away.

"Chrom."

He looked up, expectantly. "Yes, Tiki?"

"I saw your argument with Cordelia. She makes a better king than you do."

The already irritated Exalt scowled even more deeply. _Of course._ Just when his disposition was at its greatest, he had to deal with Tiki's dry humor.

"Look, Tiki, I -"

She interrupted him, changing into her human form. "Owain was right, Chrom. An ill presage does indeed blow this way. You are a fool if you doubt the truth in his words. He is as much an exalt as you are; his mark proves this. You will need him in the trials to come, as you will need Nocht."

His eyes flew upward, horrified. "W-what do you mean?"

Tiki looked to the clear sky; its azure calm was a gift to all beneath it. Closing her eyes, the seemingly-young woman let the soft breeze caress her pale skin. She sat like this a long while, preparing.

Finally, the manakete turned to him.

"'Her work is not done. She is still needed here.'" Tiki quoted her parting words after Nocht had defeated Grima, when everyone still had hope she would return. It had been fresh then, this hope. Hope hadn't yet had the time to rot. "You will find Nocht, Exalted King. When she is needed, she will come. Until then, stall the influx of Lyram immigrants." She looked away, admiring the trees dancing in the wake of a zephyr. "This is all I can offer you."

"How _dare _you!" Chrom stood, pulling Falchion from the ground. His mind still reeled from the manakete's casual reveal of the imminent coming of Nocht. "Our bonds weren't strong enough! If she was going to come back, she would have alread - "

"Fool!" Tiki snapped, pulling him back down.

He landed with an undignified plop as his rear hit the ground.

"You may be the Exalted King, but you are not omniscient. You do not know the ways of the world, much like your subjects do not know the ways of economics and diplomacy. Heed my words, dear Chrom."

She leaned toward him, entrapping his eyes with hers, "You and Cordelia alone will not be able to save Ylisse, as much as you shut your eyes and pretend this to be so. You will need the greatest tactician this realm has ever seen, and the only man who can convince her to come."

Chrom sat silently, trying to digest Tiki's words. "_The only man"? What man?_

_No, she can't possibly mean . . ._

_But he was the only other man Tiki spoke of, so -_

She laid a comforting hand on his leg, offering him a diplomatic smile.

_Just like Cordelia. _He grimaced. _I'm beginning to hate women._

"Very well, Tiki." It was all the Exalt could say to these demanding females. _Smile and nod, Chrom. They seem to know best._

* * *

**A/N: Finally, a plot! Lyram is based on an unreachable continent in the Awakening map. Some argue this may be Tellius, or another previously mentioned continent in the series. I'm using it for my own purposes, since the devs have not made anything certain.**


	8. Chapter 8

Chrom watched with a loving smile as his daughter played with her wooden sword. Today was the third time she'd broken a practice dummy, and he couldn't have been more proud.

Sure, the maids were upset about all the wood trimmings everywhere, but that couldn't wipe the prideful grin from his face.

To add to his tranquil mood, the sky above him was sublime. Nothing could have made him feel as small and awed as the clouds did now. Wisps of red and white, intertwined with golden puffs and the deepest purple pillows, all were set in the sky like jewels adorning a crown. And the sun, itself, was the epitome of the dance; the epicenter of all around it, holding the sky together as it continued its lazy waltz through space.

The leftmost dummy lay in tatters, its head lolling off the straw body. An eerie slit where a human's mouth would have been gaped at him, as if to say, "Your daughter . . . She's a menace."

Well, maybe not that, exactly. Perhaps, "She was too . . . strong."

Chrom sighed. Where was Owain when you needed him? The Exalt, himself, couldn't make up all these stories. He didn't have the imagination.

"Daddy, look!" Lucina's grin was wider than his own, as she swung her sword about haphazardly.

Chrom watched for a long while, marveling at how strong she was. Somehow, the young Lord was able to keep her balance, even with the sword being as long as she.

"Come here, Lucy." He held his arms out, getting off the bench to kneel in the grass.

She ran to him, almost running him through with her dull wooden blade in excitement.

He chuckled, ruffling her hair.

Then she looked up.

That tiny, minute detail on her nose. That hint of an ever present blush on the tip, just like her mother's.

The Exalt's breath caught in his throat, and he tried to look away.

"Daddy?" She came up in front of him, again, weaving through his arms to look him in the eye. "Daddy, are you _crying_?"

"What?" He cleared his throat, "O-of course not, Lucy. I'm just . . . squinting."

"Do you know what Mommy said about lying? She told me . . ."

Lucina thought for a moment, scrunching her nose in agitation. "She told me . . ."

"Every lie is not an excuse we give to others, but a restriction we impose upon our self." Chrom's voice was hoarse as he remembered Cordelia's bright face when she praised Lucina for having told the truth.

"_I smashed the wall, Mommy! I'm s-sorry! It was an acid-dent, Mommy!"_

"Yeah!" Lucina beamed at him. '"If anyone would remember, it'd be you!"

Chrom wondered if Lucina intrinsically knew Cordelia was not her mother. That the darkness to her eyes; her wide, compassionate smile; that blush upon her nose; had all been from Nocht. Even the way Lucina ate, with a ramrod straight back and concentrating eyes, was indicative that Cordelia was her adoptive parent. Everyday Chrom lived with a reminder of Nocht, and everyday he was reminded she was gone. But now . . .

_What, now? Tiki said she would come back. Nocht would come back._

_Oh, gods._

He buried his face in his daughter's shoulder, trying to quell the rising threat of a sob.

"D-Daddy?"

Every child seems to know how to discern what their parent is feeling. They can detect it in the air, perhaps. The telltale hint of a tense stillness, or a field of angered electricity: these signify a parent's distress. And Lucy was no exception.

A determined scowl settled upon her lips, and the dark eyes that adumbrated his first love were narrowed in concentration. Despite her stubbornness, however, tears threatened to spill over.

"I d-don't know what h-happened," she stumbled between bouts of gulping, "but I'll get them for you, Daddy. I-I'll get them, so you d-don't have to!"

Chrom pulled away, resting his forehead on hers. Lucina's serious look turned the corners of his lips upward. "That's my Lucy." His fatherly head-pat made the young Lord flush with pride.

The Exalt heard soft footsteps on the cobblestones behind him. Turning about, he saw his wife come out of the shadows with a smile. The sunset lit her features perfectly, and her hair blazed in the dying light. He noticed she was rubbing her stomach, lovingly.

At his raised eyebrow, she rushed to his side.

Kneeling down next to Lucina and her father, Cordelia drew them both into a hug.

"Lucy, you're going to have a baby sister!"

* * *

"Good, you're awake." Owain walked into the only room adjoining the hallway. It was quite the small cabin, sure, but it had only been him and Morgan living there.

"Owain . . ." Nocht coughed, suddenly, causing her makeshift doctor to hastily pour her a glass of water.

She took it, shakily. He wasn't even sure she could hold it on her own; for her bruised hands and beaten fingers made such a mundane task exceedingly difficult.

"Where am I?" Nocht sat up, causing the sheets to fall from her shoulders.

He mentally shook himself, and reached into the mess of robes currently adorning his body for the Recovery staff that lurked within. _Perhaps such a powerful staff might heal her soul, as well. _"Ah, good question, fair maiden! You currently inhabit my humble office, in which my thoughts are wrangled into comprehensible tidbits and deposited onto parchment." He offered her a compassionate smile, then gestured with wide arms to the array of books, like a grand duke announcing his betrothed duchess. "This is where I've been spending most of my time, up until recently." He then settled himself on the edge of the bed.

Owain observed her entertaining mannerisms. First, the rubbing of the face. Once she relieved herself of the tired expression that had consumed her features, she began pulling on her ears.

He chuckled.

"What?" Nocht asked, groggily.

"Nothing, nothing. Just observing." He was glad to see the physical cuts and scrapes had faded into the ether, but her eyes were still downcast and bruised beneath.

She looked out into the room, and he followed the tactician's gaze. Stacks upon piles of books dwelled in the farthest reaches of the small office. The shelves were overstuffed with literary genius, and various tomes poked out of the crowd, seeming to say, "Pick me! Pick me!" She eyed a Mjolnir tome appreciatively.

"You can read it, after I tell you what I saw in Sunderton."

She grunted, rubbing her eyes. "Only after _you_ tell _me_ why my future son and his best friend are shacked up in the middle of nowhere."

He laughed, "Middle of nowhere? We're just south of Ylisstol, near the field where Chrom and Mom found you. Morgan and I 'shacked up' here because he was hoping this would be the place you'd awaken in once again." He flitted through a Goetia tome that had been situated on the bedside table next to him, absently marveling at the swirling symbols dancing upon the pages. The sage was thankful for his brief time as a sorcerer. Otherwise, this gate of knowledge would have been barred from his curious eyes.

"We settled here after our trip across Ylisse, actually. Once Morgan left the palace, we decided we'd be the people's local heroes: he, to find his lost optimism; and me, to . . ." He cleared his throat, then mumbled something incomprehensible. Nocht thought she heard "sword hand" in there somewhere, but she wasn't positive.

Dwelling upon past escapades elicited a smile from his lips, but it didn't wrinkle Owain's eyes like his real displays of happiness used to.

"Towards the end of our journey, we happened upon a quaint village called -"

"Let me guess: Sunderton."

An irritated tick made itself apparent on his temple, and Nocht couldn't help but smile. "You guessed . . . correctly . . ." It always bothered him when people interrupted, she remembered.

He cleared his throat dramatically, then continued. "It was in this seemingly benign town, with its rolling green hillsides and golden pastures, where my suspicious self began to . . ." Owain blinked, searching for a word. "Suspect?"

This earned him a snort from Nocht, and he hastily resumed, "Nevertheless, we stayed at the local tavern, too weary from our travels to continue on the road. Some of the more . . . inebriated consumers spoke to Morgan and myself of a fad religion sweeping the southern coast. This, I hadn't heard before, so I began my interrogation of the local residents, trying to find out more. One woman told me that their main chantry was actually stationed in Sunderton, so I began my search for this elusive home base. 'Debauchees and young lovers, all of them', a more conservative man told me as I asked around. He mentioned not to go near the waterfall at the end of town, where the two mountains Hroth and Judgal met; because it was there the lechers and prostitutes gathered. Naturally, I immediately set out for it."

"And did you find them? The prostitutes, I mean."

The storyteller's face wrinkled in contempt, then he nodded. "I did, indeed. The rest of the story . . . well, it's not so pleasant."

_He and Morgan were clothed in deep brown robes, much like the other attendees. Though some of the more illustrious members insisted upon bearing their family crest and prized jewels, blatantly giving away their allegiances and affiliations._

Fools._ Owain waited and watched. He seemed to do too much of that, lately. His sword hand hungered for action, a__nd there was none to be found. It didn't seem there would be any time soon, either._

_He tried to ignore Morgan's incessant fidgeting, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He decided to observe his surroundings more closely, noting the deep red haze hovering a few inches above the ground. There were many scarlet candles lit throughout the hall, giving off a sickly sweet scent. Cushions were also haphazardly scattered about, with young women lounging on them suggestively, trying to entice the attendees with their musical laughter and twinkling eyes. One of the exceedingly voluptuous ladies caught his glance with a wink, and he immediately tore his gaze from hers, a heated blush crawling up his neck._

_Suddenly, a cold draft of air blew through the chantry, smothering the candles in its wake._

_The company tensed in the darkness, waiting with baited breath._

_They waited._

_And waited._

_Owain joined in Morgan's impatient shuffling. This was getting ridiculous._

_Then he heard the drums. Deep, resonating beats coming toward him through the inky black like a bad omen. This was the telltale sign of the Lady Priestess, he heard some whisper. The ominous harbinger of Her imminent approach._

_A cold beam of light shot through the darkness, piercing a path through the middle of the gathered crowd. It was down this path of light a figure walked, clad in gree__n and black robes that covered the priestess from head to toe. _How can they even be sure it's female?

_As she sauntered down her holy pathway to the beat of the drums, Owain grumbled to himself._

Egotistical little -

_He felt a tugging on his left sleeve._

"_What?"_

_The young tactician's hand rose, pointing to the priestess' assistant who cautiously followed her._

_It was a girl; fairly young, perhaps in her early teens._

_Owain could feel the cogs in Morgan's head turning. _He certainly is the son of a great tactician, to be able to lapse into such an intensely tenacious state of concentration.

_He turned his attention back to the girl, who had deep blue hair tied into pigtails. She looked . . . severe, to say the least. Her face was scathing and bitter, a perm__anent scowl apparent upon __the rouge__ lips. _Well, she must be a joy to converse with.

_It took eons for the pair to reach the dais. Once there, the priestess raised an arm, and the light flowing through the center of the mass suddenly shifted, lighting only the woman clad in thick robes._

"_Children of Nila, though you may live in Ylisse, know that Lyram understands your plight. I bid you welcome, fair people. For too long has your society been dominated by ruthless tyrants, who claim themselves nobles. For too long has the poor farmer had to bow to the bourgeoisie who pretend their utmost duty is to the people, when in reality they are lining their pockets with your hard earned coin!"_

Stupid, ridiculous demagoguery. Like anyone would actually buy this cra -

"_Damned right!" a fellow to his left yelled, raising a fist in fury. Owain cocked an eyebrow, hypothesizing the overzealous man next to himself was a paid endorser. The righteous crier certainly had an effect upon the crowd: some lapsed into whispers, wondering why the priestess would speak out so openly against nobles, when several of the attendees were, in actuality, highborn._

Really? They had to ask?

_Owain knew what was going on, and he didn't want to stay for the rest of the rally. This was a social call to arms, nothing more. If the priestess could bash the nobles practically publically, it would incite rebellion amongst more timid members of the low classes. He gathered that many of the more shrewd highborn had been threatened by the lowly merchants' ability to buy themselves into the higher classes, and wanted to find out just how far they'd go. Thankfully, Ylisse didn't have castes, much like some of the other countries Owain had read about. However, the classes of his home country certainly were rigid in their acceptance. Once a farmer, always a farmer. It seemed the term most apt in this situation was: "You can buy your way into social circles, but not their good graces". Where had he heard that before? Something Nocht said a long while ago, probably._

"_The Exalt sits and stews in his throne, unable to be the king this country requires. The man sitting in the palace now knows only bloodshed. He was the one who led your country to war with Plegia, then Valm. It may have been successful for a while. Yes, wars require munitions! Armies require food! But now that the output has no demand? Your crops are worthless! Each ear of corn is worth a hundredth of what it was six years ago! This is what your king has achieved!"_

_The priestess continued, gesturing to a man in the crowd._

"_You there, young man. You seem winded from a long journey of wills. You have seen much in your short time in this world."_

_Owain looked around, searching for the poor sod._

_He noticed the gazes of all others', including Morgan's, were directed at him._

_A sinking feeling descended into his gut. _Oh, no . . .

_Suddenly, he felt hands pushing and pulling him toward the stage on which the priestess and her assistant stood._

"_Owain needs no aid!" He snapped to the eager hands that were meddling with him._

"_Come hither, my child, and embrace what Nila has to offer your despondent soul, so torn apart from the vicious battles this country has wrought."_

_He noticed the glare of the young teen in his peripheral sight, and he smiled meekly in return._

_The priestess' long fingers held his robed arm, pushing him toward the dais._

"_Here, my Goddess. Accept this child and his offering, he with the blood of the Many."_

_She pulled her sleeve up, slowly, exposing tanned skin befitting someone working in the fields, not preaching in chantries._

_Owain saw deep scars tracing her arm: white, puffy marks where she had been cut countless times. His eyes caught the flash of steel, and before he saw the knife unsheathed, its tip was embedded an inch deep in the priestess' arm._

_The crowd gasped._

_She dragged the blade further down her forearm, large drops of blood pooling and collecting along the blade._

_His first thought was to heal the gash, to take out his staff and quickly apply magic to the wound. But this was no ordinary wound. Self-inflicted and putrid, was it. She held her arm over the dais, letting the blood drip onto the wooden surface. Immediately, the red liquid began to coagulate. Blackness swirled throughout the scarlet, and tendrils of opaque shadow reached for him. The blood in his veins tingled, seeming to push at the inside of his skin, wanting to be let out._

_The priestess handed him the knife, and gestured for Owain to follow suit._

_He gaped, incredulous, at the hooded figure. "I am not your cadaver, heathen! Stay back, lest I lose control!"_

_She bent closely to him, so only he could hear. "You are the son of a dark mage and a healer. No purer blood exists, child. Now, join yours with mine, in the name of Nila."_

_Owain looked to Morgan, utterly confused. _Why not_ his_ blood? He's the son of the vessel of Grima and has Exalted blood. Why me?

Furthermore, how did she _know_?

_He shuddered, quickly placing the intricate dagger back onto the dais._

_Noticing Morgan looking for a way out, Owain followed suit._

"_There!" The sage yelled to the tactician. Morgan's sharp mind immediately knew why Legendary Armsman Owain would point to the highest beam of the building._

_Owain deftly removed the grappling hook from his belt, knowing he only had one shot: one chance to perfectly place the ho -_

"Owain." Nocht eyed him suspiciously.

The storyteller, in turn, looked at her innocently.

"Yes, dear listener?"

"You're getting carried away."

Her glare sent shivers down his back, but not the type she probably intended. He shook himself, and urged the feeling to go away. _Not now, Owain_. _That stupid stint as a romance writer is catching up to you. Why, oh why, did you accept that job?_

"Sorry, it's just . . . the moment, you know?"

She raised her eyebrow.

After clearing his throat, Owain revealed what had actually transpired.

_Owain leapt from the stage, shoving his way through the crowd. Morgan followed, glimpsing back cautiously as the priestess looked on their escape with, what he assumed, was a smile. She still had her hood drawn, however, so none could tell if she indeed was smiling manically._

"_We will meet again, Nila's children."_

Finally finished, he sat back against his listener's bent legs with a sigh. "I need some water."

"I don't understand. 'Nila'?" She pondered the new goddess, displacing Owain and throwing the sheets off her legs. Nocht braced herself against the chill, and rubbed her arms.

Owain noticed goose bumps form along her exposed limbs, and planned on chastising Lucina later for changing her mother into such cold clothing.

He stood along with the tactician, removing his outermost robe and draping it over her shoulders.

Gesturing towards the door: "Would you like to converse on the consequences of this new realization over lunch?"

Nocht's eyes widened, and she turned back to him.

"Lunch?"

He chuckled, putting a hand on her newly-robed shoulder. "My tale was a long one, that it was."

* * *

"So, she's using this rebellion as a ruse to collect people's blood?" Nocht offered, that sharp tactician's glint in her eye. Owain could tell she was trying to purely focus on the problem at hand, but a darkness relentlessly crept into her expression. She often looked away with a hint of the despair she had felt the night before swimming in those deep opals.

"I guess so. I mean, what else could 'blood of the Many' have meant?"

She thought for a moment, turning over the spoon between her fingers. "Using prostitutes as an incentive . . . creative, really." With a more serious tone: "I don't know. If it were simply Exalted, she'd want Morgan's. You . . ." Nocht looked at him a long while.

Her dark gaze made his stomach turn. He began shuffling uncomfortably, then tried to cover his nervousness with a grin. "You know, Nocht, if any glare could move mountains, it'd be yours."

She sighed, finally unlocking the manacles. Instead of staring at her conversation partner, she took to contemplating the trees outside of the cabin. _A perfectly placed window, _the tactician observed. _Right above the kitchen sink. I actually woul__dn't mind doing dishes there._

"What am I going to do, Owain? I have enough problems to worry about. I need to see my daughter. I need to see . . ."

Her grip tightened on the spoon. The knuckles holding on to the modest metal utensil were white as bone. "I need to see the king."

He noted she didn't want to affiliate herself with Chrom. Not "my husband," or "Lucy's father". Just, "the king".

Owain's heart tightened, but he nodded. "Once Lucina and Morgan come back from town, we will."

A tenseness pervaded the air before him, cloaking Nocht in a despondent stupor. "What if - " She stopped, looking down. When Nocht noticed her stranglehold on the spoon, her fingers released, dropping the object back into the bowl with a clatter. The soup received the utensil with a splash.

Shaking her head, Nocht glanced back toward him. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter, now."

He wanted to quell the sadness in her eyes, so he tentatively placed his hand upon hers. They sat like this a long while, he watching their hands, and her watching the world outside the window. Both knew they each had reached a turning point, though not the crossroads the other had:

The tactician knew what was to come would be hard and arduous, and she wondered if her soul could contain the throbbing pain, but she was finally willing to try.

The sage saw hope, and in his confidence, he squeezed her fingers with his own.

She looked to him, surprised.

Owain offered her another compassionate smile, and, much to his wonderment, she _blushed._

"Thank you, Owain."

She then started, suddenly. "I forgot about the Mjolnir tome!"

* * *

**A/N: I used the term "bourgeoisie" rather loosely - I'm pretty sure the nobles don't actually own the means of production in Ylisse; and most likely that would be the merchants and smiths. (Ironic, no?) Nonetheless, "bourgeoisie" has a certain connotation that elicits quite the prejudiced scowl nowadays, so that's why I'm using it. I also am aware that using the French term "bourgeoisie" may ruin some people's immersion. However, the game itself uses foreign terms like "en route" and "et cetera", probably because those terms have become a part of the English language. "Bourgeoisie" is also part of our dialect nowadays, so that's why I'm comfortable using it. I know, I know, half of you stopped reading at "A/N", but I do want to wrinkle out any problems. To the other half of you that stayed, I'd give you one of these Mexican cookies my grandmother bought me, if I could :D**

**How I'll be addressing the different combat system from Awakening: Once a unit learns how to use a specific weapon, class of weapons (tome, dark tome, etc.), or skill, he or she can use that knowledge even after they change classes. (Similar to Aversa's Shadowgift, if you will.) This is why Owain is able to understand Dark Magic tomes, even though he's a sage. This is also why he can use a sword. So yes, his sword hand still hungers ;)**

**-My fav line of this chapter? "**_'Damned right!' an overzealous fellow to his _left_ yelled._**" Oooh, the irony. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Posted: 8/18/2013**

Nocht awoke with a gasp, sitting up immediately after rising from unconsciousness. Her hands were trembling as they tried to rip the covers from her body. Stubborn sheets clung to dampened skin, however, so she fell to the ground with a thud.

Thankfully, there was no one to see her. Owain had offered for her to stay in his room, agreeing with Morgan's saying she "was a lady and ladies shouldn't sleep on couches", or however the young tactician had put it. Nocht acquiesced, only because she would then have the opportunity to read through all of the books on Owain's shelves. She didn't want to read his personal works, however; because those were intimate, and she shouldn't intrude.

She still felt mildly bad for Owain sleeping in the cellar, but he had chosen to. The tactician hadn't even known there was a cellar, until Morgan pointed out the trapdoor at the end of the hallway, right outside the office door.

Nocht wandered over to a few of the open books lying on the resident author's desk, trying to forget the images she had dreamt. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, however, so she couldn't hold on to any of the books she wanted to read. _Tighten your grip, fool! _She snapped at herself for being weak. What she had dreamt had been from the past, and should stay there. Such memories should have no bearing upon her now. But they did, even though she tried to staunch the flow. "_A sailor cannot tame the tide, no matter how he rows."_ Nocht found Owain's words from deep within her schism of a mind: back when she had been discussing his eloquence with him. It was a lengthy conversation, she remembered. With a lot of bushing on his part.

She heard Morgan rustling outside, yelling something about leaving for the palace in a few minutes. With a shout of frustration at having forgotten, she rushed out the room.

Huffing from the sudden rise of blood pressure, she found the cabinet in the living area where her armor and cloak were stored. Nocht hastily attached her gauntlets, though her hands were putting up a fight, and the straps were almost impossible to buckle because of it. She then threw the breastplate on over her head. Thankfully, it wasn't so bulky that she couldn't see her feet. So, the tactician then tried putting on the lower steel components.

"Mom, can I talk to you for a second?" Morgan sidled over to the stooped figure as she fiddled with her greaves.

Suddenly, steel armor was thrown against the wall, igniting a clash loud enough to wake the dead. In exasperation, Nocht fell into the chaise. She could not fix the straps about her legs, no matter the method tried. Morgan quickly went to retrieve them, noticing a large dent on both bulwarks right below the knee.

"Here, Mother." He walked to where she was sitting. Her legs swung back and forth in a familiar display of agitation. "Let me help you. There was just a den– "

"Don't tell me, please." He looked up from the greaves, hearing tears in her voice. "I don't want to know the extent of my incompetence."

"H-hey, now." Shocked, Nocht's son immediately sat beside her upon the chaise, letting the implements of protection fall from his hands. "Don't say things like that. You know, as well as I do, you're not incompetent."

"Oh?" Her throat no longer contained wet sadness. Instead, it held a bitter vehemence that took Morgan aback. "I left my baby daughter for six years. My husband gave up on me. I awoke this morning remembering my mother's face covered in blood, bile dripping from her mouth." She shook her head, brown hair rustling as it swung back and forth. "Her last words to me? 'Never forget, my daughter.'" Nocht snorted, throwing her hand about in a display of contempt. "And look how that turned out. I ended up forgetting her for half my life."

Morgan knew his mother well, though this version of her was certainly younger, and more easily upset. She didn't want empty words - she'd rather have a discussion. "What did she want you to remember?"

In response, the elder tactician laughed: a cutting, almost maniacal laugh that echoed throughout the small house. "I forgot."

* * *

Owain stood in the hallway, leaning against the door that separated his room from the living area. He heard Nocht's description of the dream she'd had. Her mother's body had been torn open by her father's grim magic, and Nocht had tried in vain to place the organs back into the gaping cavity. She described her innocent youth of the time; barely thirteen and never held a staff. But here she was, trying not to retch as she put the pieces of her mother back together. It was a task almost impossible for the most accomplished healer, let alone an inexperienced child. Nocht then told Morgan of how Validar had laughed the whole while – laughed, as she tried to save her mother's life.

"Yeah? Well, look who's laughing now!" Owain's ears pricked, and he tried to get a better angle against the door. "You killed Validar, Mother. You avenged her."

"Avenged? I wouldn't have needed to had I not let her die. I watched, Morgan. _Watched _as my own mother and fath – " She suddenly stopped, and Owain braced himself for another sentence of venomous tone. It never came, however. Sobs followed, instead. He heard Morgan trying to soothe the tactician, but to no avail.

"Why now?" Nocht's voice was so soft, Owain almost thought he'd imagined it. "When I finally come back, I'm poisoned. Poisoned by these fruitless, impractical, utterly _useless _memories that only cause me pain. I don't understand the impetus, Morgan." She then chuckled, voice growing louder. "Perhaps the god lurking above us has a sadistic sense of humor."

"I'm sure Naga isn't sadistic, Mother." Morgan pondered, warily.

Nocht shook her head. She had not been speaking of the divine dragon. "Naga is no god, child. Remember?"

Owain couldn't hear Morgan's response, if there had been one. Perhaps his friend had remained silent. Either that, or the door kept his voice from the sage's ears. With a sigh, Owain decided it was time to reveal his presence.

* * *

Morgan didn't know what to say after his mother had called him "child". The last time she'd referred to him by that appellation had been more years ago than he'd like to count.

He also didn't know how to respond to what his mother's few words of Naga had implied. Morgan remembered her speaking about it years before: she couldn't fathom how anyone could worship that which wasn't actually a god. "_What can Naga do for us, other than give advice on that which we already know? What use is Naga to Ylisse?"_ With a grimace, Morgan realized that, this very morning, his mother had retrogressed. This utilitarian cynicism had been all but abolished upon her courtship with Chrom. The prince had given his mother something unfathomably beautiful: a sense of wonder.

Of course, Morgan, himself, hadn't been there to witness this change, for he had come much later. Lissa had been the one who told Morgan of Nocht's new way of life. The tactician began to care about the world around her, and started viewing units as people, rather than pawns that needed to be placed. She had no longer been abstracted from the others, and her appreciation for fellow souls was so vast that she actually found herself making sure no one on the battlefield died, no matter the difficulty of the opponent. She praised Naga as a beacon of hope for the people, and appreciated the divine dragon's support, however limited it was. _But now what's going to happen?_ That sense of wonder had clearly run out; and all that remained in the husk was the residue of times past.

The distraught young man heard a creaking, and turned to meet the sound. He saw Owain's head poke out from behind the hallway door, blond hair disheveled and face still marked from his pillow. Clearly, the sage had been listening to their conversation, rather than getting ready to go to the palace like they had all been supposed to.

"Hey, Owain!" Morgan feigned cheer as he rose to greet his friend. The eavesdropper gave him a sad smile, then walked over to Nocht.

She was staring at the floor. Her face was taut, and every so often her eyebrows would knit together in anger. "What was it you wanted to ask me, Morgan?"

The object of her question stiffened, then looked to Owain. With a supportive nod from the sage, Morgan steeled himself. "Mom, are you . . . pregnant with me?"

She stared at him, flabbergasted. With a cry of shock, the tactician realized his motive. _Morgan has not been conceived, and without Chrom, he never will!_

Owain watched as horror enveloped Nocht's sadness. He went to sit beside her, leaving Morgan shifting uncomfortably before them.

"B-but . . . I don't understand. Your hair, it's – "

"Blue, I know. _His _blue." Morgan didn't need to point out who "he" was. "But I came from a different future. So, perhaps you didn't give birth to me in this timeline." His offer was a weak one, but it was the best they had at the moment.

His mother stared at him, looking at his broad shoulders and regal demeanor. _He looks so much like him. Just a few years, and he's grown from my baby into a . . . a king._

"I just don't understand." She whispered. Her eyes were becoming red-rimmed as she postulated the implications of this. _Isn't this what Yarne was trying to prevent? If his parents never had him, he believed he would cease to be. What if Morgan . . . _She gripped Owain's hand in a vise, turning to him for guidance.

He looked about, thinking Nocht couldn't possibly be looking to _him _for advice. Realizing her stare wouldn't abate, he rubbed her back, trying to soothe her in any way he could. "Morgan came from another timeline. It makes sense that Morgan simply came from a timeline where random events allowed the king to be his father. It's conceivable you might not even have a child in this specific branch of time." He continued quietly, adding as an afterthought: "Morgan could even be fathered by a different man."

Morgan nodded, reassured. "See? I'm not going anywhere just because Chrom's not around. The love of your life's here to stay."

She regarded them both with vulnerable eyes. Owain tightened his hold on her hand, "You're not going to lose anyone else, Nocht. I won't let that happen." The sage wasn't sure what he could do about Morgan vanishing into thin air, but he knew he'd give anything, even his life, to make sure Nocht didn't lose any more of her family.

Her dark opals subdued into relief. Liquid crystals still fell, but thankfully, Owain noted, they had been formed by happiness. Reaching to embrace him, she sobbed into his shoulder, "You a-always know . . . what to say."

He chuckled, and the warm rumbling of his chest calmed her. "As all storytellers must, dear listener."

Morgan watched the two, surprised at the intimacy between them. He couldn't see his mother's face, but he noticed Owain's had a look of utter contentment the likes of which Morgan had never seen. His smile was kind and gentle, a far cry from the sage's usual grin of childlike rapture. And, despite her being overwhelmed by emotion, Nocht's hands had finally stilled.

The young tactician began hypothesizing.

* * *

"Mom, time to get up!" Nocht heard her son's incessant knock, but her attention paid him no mind. She was absorbed in the book that currently rested in her hands.

It was racy, sure. She wasn't proud of that. But the words were so expertly crafted, that each sentence perfectly displayed an image within her mind of what was going on, and an alluring and sensual atmosphere pervaded the novel so well she could cry. Never, in her time on this world, had she encountered such an author that was so self-aware, so –

"Mother! Are you alright?"

She wasn't sure. Any moment now, her heart would explode out of love for the poetic tone of voice, and how the wordsmith had paid attention to not only the connotations and definitions of the words used, but also the _sounds. _Reading the book aloud made the atmosphere even more tangible. The syllables resounded in such a way that Nocht wouldn't be surprised if, in fact, a bard had written what lay before her.

"I'm coming in!"

Nocht cursed, shoving the book underneath her covers.

"Mom? Is something wrong?"

_Yes. You're interrupting. _She refrained from pointing this out, however, and instead smiled. She didn't have to try hard; because her mood had been lifted significantly by the pages that her eyes had beheld. "Good morning, Morgan. How goes breakfast?"

Her son was slightly vexed for a moment, "You seem . . . happy."

"Mm, just wondering what's for breakfast, is all. I'm famished." She quickly stood up, practically gliding over to the dresser.

"Uh-huh . . ." Morgan wondered how she had managed to fill up Owain's dresser in the span of a few days. _With Lucina's help, no doubt. _His sister loved shopping, especially with their mother. He then mentally shook himself, trying to locate his previous trail of thought.

_Ah, yes. Her . . . glowing-ness. _He knew what had transpired when women were "glowing". Either they were pregnant, or had . . . "done the dance" the night prior. Many years ago, a few days after Morgan had come into the picture, Lissa had ruined his innocence. When he asked why his Mother had been wobbling around camp like there was a squirrel in her pantaloons, yet managed to have a look of such gaiety that he couldn't fathom what ailed her legs, Lissa told him. Remembering how close Owain and Nocht, almost unconsciously, seemed to be, Morgan glanced at the trapdoor in the hallway suspiciously. _Surely they wouldn't . . . _Morgan knew Owain was several years older than himself; he was, in fact, the age of his mother, but still. Just the thought of them –

He shuddered. _Nope. Don't go there. _

But the horrible thing was, he found an intimate relationship between the two entirely possible. And he found himself not altogether minding it. They both seemed well suited for one another. Owain was a great author, one of the best, so he heard; and Nocht had always appreciated eloquence. Coupled with the way they had been so easily calmed by the other's presence . . . _Well, she's my mother: I should at least show my support._

"I . . . uh, I know you and Owain are fond of each other, so, I just want you to know, that I don't min –"

She was in the midst of pulling her hair into a ponytail, but let it drop due to her state of shock. "What?" She turned about, dumbfounded. "What in the seven hells are you talking about, Morgan?"

The young tactician felt his neck begin to heat to an unbearable temperature. He pulled on his collar. "I just noticed you two . . . you know . . . you seem really close. I just thought you were . . . l-lovers. . ." Noticing her incredulous eyes, Morgan felt molten shame running through his veins. "Oh, so . . . _that's _not why you're so happy?"

"'_That'?_"It took her a moment to realize what he'd said. But after that moment, it then became his mother's turn to be mortified. "LOVERS?! W-what? Blazes, NO! How could you even . . . how . . ." At a loss for words, she grabbed the comb resting on her dresser. "Just . . . just get out!" She threw her comb at him, but her rage couldn't hide the creeping blush rising over her skin.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Morgan bowed as he exited, both for dodging purposes, and to show how much he regretted what he'd said.

Upon exiting the dungeon of fury and embarrassment, Morgan bumped into a chest.

"Ah, Morgan. How goes breakfast?"

The young tactician raised his eyes upward, to meet the tired Owain's. "It's . . . uh . . ." Morgan turned back to the room he had exited, still marveling at his stupidity. _Of course that couldn't have happened. I mean, she just arrived a few days ago, right? And her relationship with Owain is just that of a deep, platonic understanding. Right?_

"What ails you, friend? Have you inner demons that seek to possess your spirit?" Owain's tone was one of mirth, and Morgan prayed his friend hadn't heard what had transpired in that den of evil.

"You could . . . say that." Morgan noted Owain's quick gathering of his current emotional state. The astute author's description of his perturbation seemed to fit perfectly.

"Well, if you're not going to get breakfast started, I will." Clearing his throat, Owain rephrased his body's predicament of emptiness. "My stomach hungers for a meal worthy of a warrior! Make way, Morgan, lest the famished organ take control of my mind!"

"Of course . . ." Nocht's son turned absently, letting Owain slide past. Eventually, the distracted tactician stumbled his way to the sweet release of fresh air, and - after closing the front door – didn't hear the screech of pain that rang through the midmorning air, nor the scream of "My finger! My accoutrement of writing!"

* * *

Lucina rode with Gerome on Minerva, eyeing her mother who had been lagging behind for a few miles. "Gerome . . ."

He knew what she would utter before the words formed on her tongue. "She'll be alright, Lucina. She's a strong woman." After a pause, he turned back to his love, so that his eyes caught hers with knowing sincerity. "She is the one you take after most, Lucina. Her strength becomes you."

Surprised, the legatee of Gerome's affection smiled. "You know, I think you're spending too much time with Owain."

Gerome scoffed. "I fear you are right. Minervykins tells me how she tires of his incessant chatter whenever he's about."

"Pardon my intrusion," Owain's grey steed sidled up to the pair. "But did someone say 'incessant chatter'?"

" . . . " With a flick of Gerome's heels, Minerva soared into the sky, leaving Owain fighting for his life upon his now-bucking horse.

"Down . . . Viktor! Cease . . . this!" The sage yelled between leaps. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nocht approaching him. With a cry of embarrassment, he tried to calm the beast below with renewed vigor.

"Trouble, Owain?"

"That is . . . not an apt enough word . . . I'm afraid." Finally, he reached for his staff that was tied – securely, thankfully – to the saddlebag. Realizing it had ran out of uses upon healing Nocht (therefore he couldn't help his wounded finger), he retrieved an apple, instead. After he had quelled the panic-stricken equestrian, he threw a proud smile in Nocht's direction. "Fear not, Tactician, for now the trouble has abated, thanks to my legen – "

"Watch out!" The woman to his left warned. He blinked at her. Suddenly, he was pulled downward by a forceful hand. Owain watched, in surprise, as he narrowly missed a lowly hanging branch.

With a sigh – and a tinge of joviality – she unclenched her fingers from his arm, leaning back into her pegasus' saddle.

"Thanks, Nocht." A sheepish grin took control of his mouth while his hand rubbed the arm she had gripped. "Quite the vise your fingers emulate!"

She shrugged. "I need all the strength I can get to control the reins of this guy." She petted the pegasus' neck affectionately. "I'm surprised Lucina kept this furball. Her days of being a pegasus knight have long since passed."

Owain shrugged in response. "Yes, well, she always said she loved flying." He leaned closer to Nocht a moment, his steed not sure whether to also move closer to the pegasus or continue straight on. "In all honesty, I think it's the main reason she stays with Gerome. A stoic bad-boy demeanor can only get you so far . . ."

Perhaps it was the way he had said it, with his bandaged hand touching the corner of his lips in the fashion of a secret-toting child, or perhaps it was the manner in which his grey bronco tossed its head in frustration at having such an easily distracted rider. Either way, her first laugh in what felt like years escaped the dry, parched chasm she called a throat. The sound was loud and abrupt – boisterous, even – but it was real. _"I just noticed you two . . . you know . . . you seem really close."_

_Are we? I hadn't even noticed . . . Perhaps that is the way, when you question your own ability to love: it is impossible to notice changes of the heart. _

_Owain is a good man, and deserves someone who can give him joy. Not a hag who can only share her pain. _She then gazed up at the clouds above them. A black speck swum among the wispy tufts, and Nocht knew her daughter and Gerome were up there like lovers on honeymoon: watching the world go by below them as they danced through heaven. "You know, you may be right."

With another sigh, her face fell away from his, and the eyes that had been rapt with contentedness before were now lost to him behind a curtain of deep brown hair. "That's probably why I chose to ride such an animal." The bitter tone that had poisoned her voice this morning was back with vengeance. "Because I missed the feeling." She pulled her pegasus away from his horse, and the voice so strong with emotion a moment ago broke. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said something so foolish."

In a flurry of wings, she was gone, leaving his horse tossing in a wake once again. Owain didn't bother calming the beast. He simply looked on, wise sage eyes seeing something no one else did in the rising figure. _No matter how well she may seem, her dark thoughts pull her ever ground-ward. _He looked at the cracked soil of the road, made hard and unforgiving by countless years of travel. A broken wheel lay in the grass beside it, mossed over and bleached.

* * *

"Look!" Lucina pointed. Gerome obliged. He saw a lone figure riding so far in front of them, they were a grain of dust.

"Nocht?"

"I . . . I don't know. Would she do that?" The Lord cast her worried expression unto her love. "She's changing, Gerome. Maybe she already has."

"It is too soon. We should not have made such a plan. Going to the palace now, in her condition . . . but she will prevail." He forced confidence into the last words, glancing back at Lucina with badly concealed anxiety.

A darkness cloaked the pair as they passed through a cloud. Their frosty breath came in short gasps.

"Should we turn back?" Not only speaking of their spatiality, the wyvern rider watched Lucina's torn expression play upon her features. A twisted, sad acceptance beat worried concern to her eyes.

She croaked weakly: "No. She'll be fine. She's stronger than anyone I have ever known." As sure as her words were, the meaning itself came out brittle and wavering as she watched the lone flier speed into the sun.

* * *

She arrived in Ylisstol long before the others. Nocht had settled her pegasus in a stable just outside town, leaving her alone with scathing thoughts. There was a tavern beside it, and she smiled. "The Havoc Hammock," its name was proudly displayed on a sign hanging above a pair of large wooden doors. The thatched roof was quaint and inviting, with a bricked chimney puffing delicious gusts of apple wood smoke.

She entered the tavern tentatively, hoping no one would recognize her. Nocht pulled on her hood in anxiety, glad for once that Lucina had bought her such an outrageously large cloak.

"Did you hear? Lissa-girl's even stronger with child!"

"The hell you talking 'bout, Beatrice? Lissa's been pregnant with the brat nine months! He's late in coming, that he is!"

"That's what I meant, you dolt! Gods, Furmer, you're an ass!"

She sat down on the table nearest the pair, eager to hear more of her old friend's predicament. They were soon wrapped in an argument, however. An argument that was as fruitless as it was irritating. She relocated to a chair on the far side of the tavern, by the fire.

"Mind if I join you, Mother?" Nocht looked up to see her daughter, clothed in much the same robes as herself.

The tactician chuckled. "I didn't know you bought us matching ones, Lucy."

Lucina blushed, then sat before her mother in an opposing armchair. "Are you . . . are you nervous, at all?"

Nocht stared into the flames, hoping its blazing courage would give her strength. A recent thought troubled her once again: The young woman that was situated in front of her – was she her daughter? A different Nocht had raised her. A Nocht that stayed with Chrom before she had died. Did she know the woman that sat in front of her? Lucina knew _her - _or her future old self, at least -that was obvious. But –

_Why think of this now, fool? You've been with her three years, now. She helped you overcome Valm. Your daughter helped you defeat that which you were too incompetent and senile to in a future past. Stop doubting._

But she couldn't shake the feeling that her motherhood was incomplete. Nocht had given birth, yes – but she hadn't raised Lucina. The maturity and love that grew within a young mother was absent in Nocht, for she had not been there to nurture her child. The potential had simply sprouted - made itself apparent. It had not been cultivated and cared for as it should have. She still felt so very young. More than two and a half decades she had been in this world, and yet the tactician felt as an infant; thrust into chaos and confusion with the wet film of inky memories clouding her vision.

"Sorry, Lucy." She turned back to her daughter. "What did you ask?"

Lucina started, unfamiliar with Nocht's newly-found latency. "Oh, well I-"

Gerome then approached the mother and daughter, handing them both a pint. "My apologies. I became the object of the pair's argument." He gestured to the raging fires yelling at one another in the front of the tavern. "It was quite the blazing altercation."

Nocht glimpsed the golden band on his finger as it flashed in the firelight, then turned back to the embers. _I wasn't there for the wedding. My own "daughter"'s wedding. What kind of mother am I? I abandoned my children twice. Now I'm sitting in a tavern when I should be with my bab – _

Nocht's breath caught, and her grip on the chair tightened. Gerome and Lucina exchanged worried glances, but the bitter woman paid them no mind. _She won't remember me. She shouldn't have to. A mother that would abdicate her child for five years doesn't deserve to be remembered. _

"I'm sorry. I need to . . . I must leave." The tactician stood, pulling her already well placed hood even tighter.

After Nocht had retreated, Lucina took Gerome's hand. "It was too early, Gerome. We shouldn't have pushed her! It's my fault, I told her – "

"Hush, now." He stroked her hand with his thumb, then took the Lord's chin with the tips of his fingers. "It is as much your fault as it is mine, Lucina. We all wished for her to return to the person she was. We all refused to accept the change; because it was too disquieting. Now, we must acknowledge this, and treat it."

Lucina gave a determined nod, swallowing her sadness. "You are right, of course. We shall help her, however we can!"

Gerome admired his wife's noble conviction, staring at her in wonder. He saw the glint of gold on his finger, and the ring then drew his attention. _How such a wondrous woman can exist, I may never know. But surely, if Nocht still has a tenth of her old strength, she will prevail. She has to._

* * *

Nocht had decided to go to the palace without the others, leaving them behind. Owain and Morgan hadn't shown up by the time she had crossed the threshold of Main Street Gate, and she was glad. They would have tried to convince her otherwise. If this was to be where her soul was finally defeated, the tactician wished to meet her end alone.

The trek to up the doors was long and arduous. Eventually, Nocht reached the pair of indomitable stone structures. They were the only thing that stood between the mother and her child, and perhaps her soul's demise, as well.

With a shove, the doors swung apart. A slow, tortured creak emanated from the parting._ Two guards? This government has grown lax. 'Tis a good time for religious warfare, indeed._

"I came to see the king."

"Show us your face, traveler. It is customary to lower your hood – "

"Only when respectable men, such as the king, are present. Take me to him, and I will let my cowl fall."

The pair started at her brusque tone, then nodded. A maid was told to alert the Exalt.

The guards then stood around her, one behind, one before, and guided her through the palace. Long minutes passed, with the only sound being echoing cries of boots against marble. She was struck by the familiarity of the castle. _I remember it. Everything . . . _A large crack crawled up one of the walls by a painting of a newly-born Lucy. The tactician remembered when they had commissioned the painting, right before leaving for Valm. The crack had been long before, perhaps a year, when there had been a "seismic shift", as Miriel had dubbed it. The portrait was framed with gilded wood, and small Marks of the Exalt adorned each corner. New eyes remained shut - the only things displaying the baby's identity were her ruddy nose and tuft of deep blue hair. They continued onward. What seemed like hours later, Nocht arrived at a hallway with the doors to an office residing at the end.

She didn't want to continue. She wanted to run away, again - to keep looking at the portraits along the walls behind her. With a start, her eyes rested upon one of herself, holding Lucina. It seemed to have been based on the first time she held her daughter. The Mark of Naga glowed on Lucy's forehead. It was a romantic representation of a mark that had not yet been made apparent, for she had yet to open her eyes. The composition of the painting was interesting, Nocht noted. Her head rested against an intricately carved bedframe, hair falling in ringlets. _My hair has always been straight. Only when it was wet did it wave . . . _Other discrepancies dotted the work: Lucy was _smiling. _Nocht couldn't remember seeing her ever smile while awake. _She had been such a serious newly born . . ._ Additionally, Nocht had about her head a gently glowing sun of deep blue. She looked divine and beautiful, nothing at all how she had felt on that night. Her daughter had been the only one who was breathtaking, then - Nocht had simply been covered in sweat, though she was indeed very happy. "In Loving Memory; May She Who Saved Us Live on in a Better Future." The guards hadn't noticed she had stopped, lighter feet no longer echoing in tandem with theirs. Nocht traced the beautiful jade frame with her fingertips, leaving sweaty marks in their wake. Her hands were shaking and clammy, and the expression upon the opposite Nocht's face was something she, herself, had not felt in an eternity. It was happy and content; _motherly. _A still peace lay beyond the invisible barrier between this Nocht and the next, and she wished to jump inside, to take that other woman's place. _I want peace, too. I_ –

_Stop stalling, fool. It is but a painting._ This was the only thought she let guide her as the guard opened the doors at the end of the hall.

"This . . . traveler has come to see you, milord. Normally, we would not ask your presence, but – "

"Then why do you?" The Exalt replied, tensely. He had been playing with Lucina again, in the courtyard, before his steward had advised him to return to his office upon hearing the maid's news. Cordelia had been there, as well. His wife's happiness had been contagious - not that he needed any more joy; for he had plenty, himself. The thought of another child, birthed by the woman he loved, was almost too much. He knew he had cried tears of joy after she'd told him, but he didn't want to admit it. Surprisingly, Lucina respected his want to forget the moment of weakness, attributing it to "manly-man reasons". He almost chuckled, and for a moment the Lord forgot the robed stranger standing down the hall.

"Well, uh . . ." The guards shifted uncomfortably. Truly, they had no idea. The authority in the foreigner's voice had been intimidating, and they had obeyed accordingly.

Chrom sighed, realizing his need to draft better guards. "Fine, fine. See them in."

She was ushered into the ornately decorated room. A golden globe stood by a deep mahogany desk. Impossible tall bookshelves were filled with pages of knowledge. A beautiful ceiling - painted by Libra, surely - was a holy tribute to Naga. However, she couldn't focus on the minute details. Her eyes only saw Chrom standing before her.

His deep blue hair stood messily upon his head, and tired eyes spoke what he could not utter, himself. The anxious man was pacing back and forth. He rubbed his face as silver boots percussed upon meeting the pale marble floor.

Nocht could feel her knees weakening. The strong face she had known so well was gone, replaced by a weariness which could not possibly be attributed to her love. "_My love"? What a fool, I am._ She sank before the regal figure, no longer able to quell her grief. The tactician was thankful for her cloaked sadness; she knew her lowering would be viewed as a show of respect for the king.

And though she wanted to help him - to tell him everything would be alright, that she was here now - she couldn't even bring herself to raise her eyes.

"What is your business, friend?"

His voice, so close, sent her into a fit of speechlessness. That voice - that which she dreamed about, that which she had been longing to hear since her awakening on that cold, dark night - caused her hands to shake once again. The trembling was obvious, and she cursed herself. _Reply, fool. Reply! _"I - I . . ." She couldn't. The tactician still kneeled before the king, unable to answer a simple, facile question.

But the single letter still held more meaning than even the most eloquent, purposeful speech could ever comprise.

Chrom's heart stopped. _No . . . It can't be . . . It can't . . ._

It was a while before he realized he had been shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth, as a deranged man would. The Exalt stopped, then forced words from his suddenly parched mouth. "Leave us."

The guards obeyed, ignorant of the shift in atmosphere.

The cloak obscured everything. The figure had no face. There were no curves of a maidenly body, no broad shoulders of a man. But the voice . . . It was familiar; more familiar than the sun rising every morning, more familiar than anything he'd ever known. _No. It's not possible. It –_

The figure before him lowered the cowl.

He saw her eyes, first: deep opals that had held his, those long nights ago. Russet locks tumbled out of the hood and glinted in the golden light. Fresh tears glistened on once tan cheeks, made pale by sorrow.

The she spoke. "Chrom, I . . ."

He could feel himself moving, but his mind was unaware. It was somewhere else, in another time. Back when those eyes had been his alone, and never held sadness for as long as he held her.

The Lord had fallen to the floor before her, gazing at the face that had haunted him for five years. They were both in a previous world; in simpler, more beautiful days.

Her tears regressed into something greater: painful sobs wracked her body, and she embraced him. His arms answered hers, and both cried for times past.

Chrom knew he had to say something - had to explain this guilt he had felt since the day she died for Ylisse. Seeing her in such sorrow gripped his heart in a vise, and he couldn't get the words out. They were both stupefied by this madness; this overwhelming sadness. And though he tried, oh, how he tried, the only thing he could say was, "I'm sorry."

Somehow, it was enough. Finally, Nocht looked up, and what he saw chilled his soul.

"Don't apologize, Chrom." The tactician gazed at him with eyes that had been through death and back. They were sorrowful and cynical, despondent and cruel. This was not Nocht - this couldn't be. He had seen her a moment ago, when she had dethroned her hood. Chrom had seen the woman he loved –

"It's alright. I abandoned you, after all."

"A-abandoned?" The Exalt's voice was small and cast of tin. "Nocht, you _saved _us. You defeated –"

"I don't blame you, really. It was my own fault . . . my own fault . . ." She repeated the mantra, looking about the room with demented eyes. "Where's Lucina, Chrom? Where's my Lucy?"

His legs had fallen asleep. Being in this position for so long had made his legs echo the feeling in his mind. _What's wrong? She's just . . . she's . . ._

Nocht stood up, suddenly, stumbling toward the door. "I remember where her bedroom is." Seeing his expression, the tactician smiled. It was disturbing to behold. "Heh. Is it so surprising that I remembered everything? Even the small things . . . Yes, you may be right. Perhaps it was bad to recall. Many memories no longer escape my thoughts, now. It truly is strange, to remember everything you have lost; to remember things that should have been forgotten . . .

"I remember when I wanted these memories. Then I remember you convincing me we would make new ones. Then I remember . . ." Her face darkened, and Chrom couldn't tell if she had gone insane, or simply knew more than anyone ever should. "I wanted you to tell the others my last thoughts were of them . . . I lied, Chrom. My last thoughts were of darkness. The blackness was so deep and thick, and I - I couldn't help it . . . I cried, Chrom. I told you once: I've always been afraid of the dark, Chrom." Her pale hand was upon the doorknob, now. The nails were long and uncut, spindly fingers like dead branches. "Is she in her bedroom, king? Or shall I look for her in another location?"

"Lucina's . . . she's . . ." Chrom rose, grasping the desk for support. "She's outside, Nocht. In the courtyard."

"Nocht?" She pondered the term, turning it over in her mouth. "An interesting name. It sounds strong and beautiful, nothing at all like the cretin it adorns." After turning the knob, she stepped forward. Once. Twice. "Perhaps I am in need of a more befitting cognomen, to describe what I really am."

She took a third step, and exited the room, leaving a cold emptiness behind.

Chrom couldn't move from the desk. He feared he would not stand. What had overcome her in so short a time? And what she had said . . .

"_I've always been afraid of the dark, Chrom." _He had never experienced this feeling before. The Exalt was disturbed, even frightened. _By Nocht. _Her voice wasn't empty, or dead. It was so much _more. _He knew the latter of what he had thought to be right: _She knows more than us all. _ _More than any of us should ever live to tell._

* * *

She made her way to the courtyard. She knew to turn left, then skip the third stair with the loose tile. She remembered to close the window that was always left open accidentally, cutting off the crane flies that were attracted to the oil lamp right beside the pane of glass.

Finally, the tactician made it past the indoor columns, trotting down the small groups of stairs to the amphitheater-like courtyard below. Anticipation built with each step – along with an ominous dread. She wondered what she would find, when she leaped over the final low bench in her anxiety. Not her baby, surely. Someone six years older, six years farther from her.

She began running towards the final short barrier between her and the courtyard. She saw blurry shapes moving about in the poor light, knowing one of them was her daughter. Her feet quickened, as did her heart. Suddenly, Nocht saw Lucy's blue hair as a halo upon her young head. As she played with her wooden sword in the softly-lit evening, the strands seemed to radiate an ultraviolet light that made her glow with a godly aether. The torn mother could not move; the tactician understood she would ruin this moment. Her feet wouldn't traverse the bench, no matter how much she wanted. Nor could she call out; her throat was a yawning chasm, opening and closing like the jaws of a Risen. _No! Run, fool! RUN TO YOUR DAUGHTER!_

Her hand reached out into the air, grasping at the aether flowing toward her. It was golden and holy; exalted. _I am not worthy. _Her hand fell through the fog. As it dropped, so did her tears. Twinkling, iridescent droplets that refracted the pale of the moon._ I cannot go near her. _Realization hit Nocht – a sword cutting through her gut, spilling her insides like falling tears. _Coming back into Lucy's life now would only bring confusion and fear. Neither is of use to a child. _

The woman who stood beside her daughter, training the young Lord, had been Nocht's best friend in another life. Cordelia's smile . . . it was more beautiful than anything Nocht had ever seen. Cordelia, too, radiated the light of the gods as she looked upon her adopted child. Nocht knew – as a supreme truth – that Cordelia loved Lucina. _Lucy deserves the beauty a mother can give. It is more than I could provide. I am but a shell of the woman who gave birth to her - It was a brazen mistake to come here and expect anything else._

She spun from the scene, trying to fall away from the pain. _I'm sorry, Lucy. How will you end up now, with a better woman to raise you? The Legend never fails; surely, she will be a better mentor than I ever could. _

"I am glad it's you, my friend. I can think of no one greater." The broken woman could only manage a whisper. She looked forward, seeing the cold marble columns and endless stairs. _It is my walk of shame; for I have disgraced my family, and shall know the burden of turning away from them again. I deserve no less._

Nocht thought she couldn't hurt anymore, that her nerves had been numbed with torture. And yet the image lurking behind her managed to inflict an even deeper ache. Every step away from Lucy ripped her apart. She could feel the happiness behind her; a burning feeling like that of a scathing heat. But she could not turn. Nocht was a prisoner upon a path – she was a newly initiated stumbling through an unfamiliar cloister. With a crack, the setting around her changed. It became like the palace, but grotesque and aberrant_. _Her memories were framed upon the walls: an image of a fuzzy blue head being held in an intimate embrace; gurgling smiles and glowing eyes, pawing at a man's face as he looked upon his daughter in bewilderment; a royal reception, with Ylisse praising Nocht as their hope, the giver of a brighter future through the bestowal of a new life. Looking onward, trying to remain upright in the dizzying tunnel of memories, she saw a singularity in the distance. It was a black orb that absorbed the light around it. Her footsteps slowed, enjoying the pain this coronation brought her. She braced herself, deciding she would no longer run from the hell that awaited her. _This pain is justified. I will not walk into oblivion until I suffer as I should. _Nocht watched her life upon the walls. A woman with deep brown hair drew a tome, igniting an inferno so hot, Nocht could feel the painted brilliance. A man outside the bounds of carved wood screamed in fury, then retaliated. She saw a small girl standing behind a pillar in the corner of the painting. _Save her, Nocht. Save her from your father. _

The child trembled, hands shaking as they tried to grip the sculpted recesses in the column. A flash of light flew across the girl's face. After the whiteness abated, the small mouth opened into something inhuman. A gaping maw released a shriek of despair as blood spattered the column she hid behind.

_This, again? I thought . . ._

Nocht finally fell, realizing the odd sound of dry retching had been drawn from her own throat. She was near the singularity, now. It dazzled her with its dearth of light. Goodness and beauty were absorbed into black. _Perhaps this pain, too, will be absorbed into the ether._

The tactician crawled towards the writhing mass, no longer willing to endure. It sat upon a dais, much like that which Owain had described. Her hands reached into it. The form was not black, as she had thought, but a deep, burnt scarlet. The outer recesses of it begged for her. Red liquid began to drip from where she had pierced the coagulated aberration with her fingers, and flowed down her arms. It soon wrapped around her body; burning her with its cold embrace. Nocht couldn't resist its whispered promises. The abyss that flowed in front of her was a sweet release, and she would meet it with peace.

Suddenly, she found herself outside the castle once again, leaning against the wall of an abandoned house near the gate of Main Street. Deep brown eyes admired the ivory spires of the palace from a distance. They marveled at the backdrop of the virgin moon, pale light framing the edges of windows and balconies.

_You left again. That's what you always do now, isn't it? You run away from your duty. You are a dastard and a craven. _

Nocht could no longer control her own body. It slammed her fist into the rough wall she leaned on. The two surfaces met with a resounding crack, and she could feel her knuckles break. Bringing back her arm, she swung once more.

It was painful. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, but she would not relent. _You've done enough crying. _She noticed, absently, that flesh from her fingers clung to the uneven bricks. With a vicious shriek, she retracted her fist to strike a final time.

When she looked at her knuckles, a sickening smile carved itself into her face. Ivory showed through patches of missing skin, and blood fell as a spring shower: light and slow, but fragrant and ceaseless. After closing her eyes a moment to will herself through the pain, she ripped fabric from her robe, savagely tying the makeshift bandage with teeth and one hand. Odd tendrils writhed beneath the cloth, seeking to unite with the outer darkness. She found herself ignoring this, however. _This will remind you. This broken, bloody hand will never let your soul forget. _Looking back to the towers above, she nodded grimly. _As it should be._

Nocht wanted to make her way to the tavern, eager to feast. Her stomach had grown hungry upon seeing such putrid blood, and she wished to sate it. She turned toward the gates leading into the heart of the city. Oddly, guards stood only a few dozen feet in front of her. It seemed Chrom had posted them, for the group had not been there on her trip to the castle. _He wishes to find me? How sweet of him. He certainly _is _a devoted husband. _Her maniacal laughter split the night, causing the guards to look suspiciously at her wrapped hand as its insides dripped onto the cobblestones.

"What is your business?'

A black anger ignited in her gut. Who were they to question her, these lowlife fools that served a slothful king? "Move, dogs. Run back to your master, lest you be kicked." Her voice was death, itself. Steady and grim, while bearing no aggression; simply a cold threat with no outward emotion. It was the voice of one who had accepted fate's hand, and chose to disregard freewill because their choices mattered not. _In the end, only those who are useful should live. All others have no right to take the air from the pawns that deserve it. This is the only reason you are alive. Nocht, you must fulfill your purpose. Then you shall die. Peacefully, you will submit to the sweet abyss of oblivion. _Eagerness flowed through her veins like acid. She no longer felt incompetent. She had a reason to live, and a reason to die. _You will see this through, and you will not falter. You are Nila's, Nocht. Dear, brave tactician, you are _mine_. Praise be to those that do not hesitate, to you who strike the righteous and the incorrigible – the kings and the peasants. Equal shall your wrath be, in the eyes of the Many. _

The most zealous dog approached her, baring his teeth in threat. He rushed, minions following. Raising her bloody hand, shadow enveloped them, choking their souls as they grasped the air in vain. The darkness about them boiled, roiling and pulsing. "Go, fools. Tell your king his time of docility and torpor has ended. I seek my own master, and will not fail." She released her hand, letting her fist relax and rest by her side. As the guards ran, tails between their legs, she laughed. Turning her face to the moon so it might share in her revelry, Nocht raised her hand once more, covering the innocent light with a deep red. "You will all see, poor subjects. All will know the enlightenment that the Many bestows." After crossing the threshold, she turned one last time to the castle. "He with the blood of the Many, born of schism; darkness and purity. He who is yet unborn will be saved."

_I seek you, Dieter. _The smallest dividend of darkness emanating from the hand coiled, readying to spring. Suddenly, it shot into the night, searching for the entity dubbed Dieter.

From behind her, a scream tore through the air. "HE-ENRY!"

Nocht's necked cracked with the sudden turn, looking toward the house she had been leaning against earlier. _I guess 'tis not abandoned, after all. _The sounds flowed to the tactician's ears through a window on the second floor. "It is as Dieter described. Yet . . . I do not sense the boy."

A new wave of scent floated past her, "Ah. I sense the grown one, however. Of course! Yes . . . this shall be as he forsooth."

She quickly made her way to the closest tree, hiding behind the mossy trunk. Opalescent eyes waited, and watched.

"Henry, gods help me, you better _do something _before I kick you back where you came from!"

"Nya ha! Everyone knows you can't kick hard while you're giving birth!"

"HEEEENRRYY!"

* * *

Owain trudged through the muck, no longer caring if his robes became drenched in brown goop. Nocht had wandered off some time ago. He had no idea where to, but Lucina forced him to not follow. Instead, he had decided to visit his mother. If the sage recalled correctly, his baby self was giving Lissa quite the hard time.

He stumbled upon the large house the arguing pair back in the tavern had described.

"_I thought they moved to Plegia?"_

"_No, young'un. Well, yeah, but – "_

"_You're such a dolt, Furmer!" The woman bopped her . . . husband? on the head, then turned to Owain. "They came back to give birth about a month ago. Seems they got attacked while living there. Something about an albino guy named Dieter. They didn't want to tell anyone, though. Word is, they're quite the _weird _couple, if ya know what I mean."_

"_No. I'm afraid I don't." Owain glared at the two, daring them to begin arguing anew._

_The man hastily replied, "They's just freaky, ya know? Both magic-like, an' they got that ol' house up by the gate. It's always been cursed, that house."_

_Owain chuckled. Knowing his father, that wouldn't have been a deterring factor. Quite the opposite. With a start, he realized they had mentioned his parents being attacked. "Who is Dieter?"_

"_Don't know. We just heard your folks got caught up in some bad stuff, accident-like though. Dieter cut up your Ma and Pa during one a them rallies them crazy merchants been having down by the South, then . . . what them say these days? 'Poofed'?"_

"'_Vanished', Furmer." Furmer received another back-of-the-head smack._

"_Yeah, that's it! He just up and van . . . vani . . ."_

_The author sighed, pained by this man's ineloquence. "How did they get his name?"_

_The woman replied: "So's not much a name as a title, boy. Well, back there in Lyram, anyhow."_

"_Lyram?!" This was getting dangerous. The sage decided he needed to see his mother, and question her about this development. "By the Main Street Gate, you said?"_

_Both the husband and wife nodded vigorously, one of which rubbing his cranium while doing so. The sage inclined his head in gratitude, then retreated before they had the chance to pull him into one of their never-ending disagreements._

Now here he was, gaping in horror at the building. It was tall; at least three stories. The roof was not thatched, but decorated with a deep red tile that would normally be found adorning a foundry. It looked abandoned and decrepit. Owain knew his mother would never have come here voluntarily. Unless . . .

_She told me once, had she not? I had been born in the castle. Has Nocht's defeat of Grima truly changed the course of the future to this extent? _Owain pondered, though mostly for the purpose of stalling. _Does this have anything to do with the blood of the Many?_

"HE-ENRY!

Owain jumped, looking at an open second-story window.

"Henry, gods help me, you better _do something _before I kick you back where you came from!"

"Nya ha! Everyone knows you can't kick hard while you're giving birth!"

"HEEEENRRYY!"

Owain ran towards the door, disregarding his qualms. Though the sage was usually observant, he failed to notice the shadow lurking behind him, slowly following his steps. It slipped through the open door as he walked over the threshold. "Mom? Dad?"

* * *

Nocht crouched on the ground, breathing heavily. She couldn't remember having walked here, ending up by this dilapidated house. _I remember . . . the singularity . . . the blood . . ._

Nocht retched, though she had nothing to give up. Her hand burned. She looked down, astonished to find it almost ripped apart. Worse still, her very veins _ached. _She fell, no longer able to support even a crouch. The tactician cringed as her hand landed beneath her body. She heard a sickening crack. Her consciousness fell into darkness a moment, then pushed itself back into the present. She thought Owain's voice called through the fog. With a moan, her mind fell completely, with no hope of returning to the light.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry****, sorry, sorry! I know it's been so long. But here it is! So thanks for sticking with **_**Et Tu, My Love**_**! ****Your support is keeping this despondent writer typing :) Us writers feed off love, you know. Love . . . and our readers' tears. }:D As always, if you notice any typos or discrepancies, tell me! Otherwise I won't notice them and won't be able to fix 'em!**

**Posted: 10/20/13**

* * *

"Owain?!" He heard Lissa's screech echo from the stairway to the second floor. The sage began to run, only to trip on an ornate rug that took up half the living room. A carved wooden table sitting on the massive floor covering had shifted, due to the force of impact, and the vase atop it was shaking. Owain recognized the vase as a wedding present - from Regna Ferox. _Dilapidated house, indeed. _He absently wondered how his parents had managed to drag their whole mansion of belongings with them, until he saw a frilly pink scarf lying on a chair. It sparkled in the light of the chandelier hanging above. _Well, Olivia. I hope you didn't bring Virion in your caravan, as well. You know how he is about the miracle of birth . . ._

His father appeared at the top of the stairs, worried eyes a shocking juxtaposition to his usually cheerful demeanor. "Howdy, Owain! Wanna come help? There's gonna be blood!"

Owain grimaced, "Of course, Dad. But . . . my foot . . ."

Henry realized his son was half crouched, trying to tug his caught appendage away from the hungry jaws of the canvas. "Nya ha! That rug must be famished, to want to eat _you_!"

Owain shot his father a look. _What the heck's that supposed to mean?_

"I mean, look how _big _you are! All that swordplay sure made your muscles _huge! _No fat at all! And everyone knows the best meat's the fatty stuff."

The sage self-consciously pushed hair out of his vision, trying to look as dignified as he could in this compromised position.

Walking closer, the father saw how Owain's leg was bent at an odd angle. "That looks painful! We have to do this fast, you know. Your mom's not gonna wait! Oh, I know - let's amputate it!"

"W-what?!" Owain jolted backwards, still unused to his father's morbid jokes. _I don't think I'll ever be used to them._ "No, I'll just . . . cut the rug."

"Cut the rug! Your mom would _kill _you! And me, probably. Ooh, I'd bet she'd beat me to a pulp! Mmm . . . bruises . . ."

After much shifting and many frustrated jerks, the sage was finally able to extricate himself from the inanimate monster. "Yes, well. Let's go."

"Wait, catch!" A staff was tossed his way, and Owain nimbly caught it. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

"What is this, Dad?"

"Hmm . . . Miriel and I made it. I'm not quite sure what it does, to be honest. Some guy gave your Mom the blueprints while we were in Plegia. But I bet whatever it does is _awesome_! The guy had this fluffy beard and everything."

Both failed to notice the thin ribbon of shadow quickly dance from one end of the vaulted ceiling to the other, darting away when it came too close to a light, then hastily swim back towards the staff.

"Right . . ." Owain fingered the filigree, noting a black orb floating an inch from the top of the staff. _Well, if it helps . . ._

The thin streak finally shot into the orb unseen, a swirling mist swirling inside beautifully blown glass.

Surprised to feel the rod thrumming in his hands, Owain looked back down at the scepter.

"Is it supposed to do that?"

Henry balked a moment, teetering on the edge of excitement that surrounds the abyss of anxiety. "Erm . . . Well, I don't know! You're the sage, here."

With a sigh, the said sage jogged up the stairs, hearing labored breathing behind an ajar door at the end of the hall.

"Come on, Lissa! You . . . you've been through worse, right? That one time a Risen speared you . . . a-and you were all . . . uh . . ." A dulcet tone tried to soothe the expecting mother.

"Then Henry saved you, my dear Lissa! And he will again!"

Owain cringed. _Looks like she brought Virion._

"_Saved _me? _Saved _me?" He was astounded by the rawness in his mother's voice. It was shrill and terrifying. "Well, what can he do _now, _Virion? You tell me!"

"Ah, Owain! Do come in." Virion opened the door further, having noticed with his keen archer's vision the shape of the sage hovering outside.

"What's the situation?" Owain moved, staff in hand, to his mother. Her face was contorted and covered in sweat. The small hairs framing her forehead were curled with the humidity.

"She's alright . . . B-but it's painful!" Olivia stood, her hand still holding Lissa's. "I remember when I was giving bir– "

"Let us not speak of that day, my love!" Virion cut in nervously. "It ended happily, no?"

They all paused a moment to look at the blue-haired toddler wobbling about in the corner. He was dancing with a stuffed Risen, swooping it through the air. "I guess you're right."

"My lady, you wound me! I am _always _right." This made Olivia giggle, and Owain focused back on Lissa in irritation. _How can they be so jovial? This is serious business!_

"Mom, are you alright?"

"Oh, fine. Just fine! Why didn't you get here sooner? You think your _father _could do anything? Well, you were _wrong! _Oh, he _tried _to use a staff. And failed miserably. Then he tried to _curse _me! He said he would need to sacrifice a goat. Not over my dead body._" _She spat the words at him. "Use that thing, Owain. It's that anesthetic some guy gave me the plans to."

Her son strangled the urge to point out Lissa had eaten her fair share of goat. Nodding timidly, he drew the staff so it hovered before them. A darkness swirled about it, pulsing in anticipation. _That's . . . odd. _He ran his hand over the orb once, twice. A deep hum swept over the room, calming all it touched.

Owain heard a thump. He turned to find the blue haired boy had stopped dancing, falling on his rump with a grunt. He was soon asleep.

Lissa was faring no better. Her eyes began drifting shut. Spasms of pain woke her, however, and she snapped for him to use it once more.

"I don't know how to focus its tranquilizing agents! It affects the whole area, Mom."

"Give me that!" She snatched it out of his hand.

"W-wait! I thought – "

A blast of magic seemed to light the room in black fire. A stunned silence blanketed the air. Everyone inside the bubble of magic was stricken with aphasia.

"Ahhhh, that's better." Lissa was the only one able to talk. The others were wavering and slouched, leaning against whatever support the surrounding furniture provided. "Huh. Guess it was a bit too much for them . . . Pansies."

"Hey-o Lissa!" Henry strode in, walking through the barrier with a casual wave of his hand. "Awesome! I didn't know you could do that, Liss!"

She tensed, grabbing the side table in pain. "It didn't work!"

Owain's brow furrowed. _Is this staff really an anesthetic? And what's with the smell? It smells almost like normal healing magic, but with a dark musk . . . like wet, dusty parchment._

Looking down at his fingers in confusion, his hands tingled. Small black dots ran under his skin, then dissipated, leaving behind the faintest trace of sorcery. Suddenly, he was thrust back into reality when Henry ran to Lissa's side, placing his hands on her stomach. "Liss . . . you sure you don't want that curse? It'd numb you pretty good!"

Her glare was worse than the very sun's angry brilliance.

"Alrighty, then! Olivia, grab some of those fancy towels Lissa bought a few days ago. They look absorbent!"

"Wha-at?! Not those!" But Lissa's cry of indignation went unheeded.

"Too bad!" Turning back to his son, "And when Maribelle knocks on the door, let her in, 'cause she brought the midwife." In an aside to his wife, he added, "The nincompoop got lost on her way here. Good thing Maribelle was there to save the day. Otherwise, we'd have to do this ourselves!"

Virion blanched, stricken by the horrific idea of watching yet another woman give birth. Henry noticed, and laughed evilly. "Don't worry Virion. Maybe the midwife will be late, and you'll have to help, instead!" With a finger pointing upwards towards an intangible thought, Henry added, "Oh! Just imagine the _blood . . ."_

Olivia caught the flustered archer as he fainted. "Are you alright?"

"O-of course, dear Olivia." With a sly smile, Virion covered up his moment of awkwardness. "My, my, it is wonderful to be saved by the arms of my love. Usually 'tis the other way 'round, no?" Olivia dropped him, ignoring his outcry of conceived betrayal.

Suddenly, the door downstairs was kicked savagely, inciting the inhabitants. Most notably, Lissa. "What's she _doing _to my door? That was a gift from – "

"I'll get it." Owain stood. Virion got up as well, ceremoniously dusting off his trousers.

"I will come with you, if I may." The archer's cocky smile couldn't hide how the corner of his mouth twitched due to agitated nerves.

They both walked down the stairs, one much more casually than the other. _The man who puts the "arch" in "archer" sure doesn't put the "act" in "acting". _

By the time they reached to front door, Virion was trembling like a leaf. "I must admit, I am a bit frightened of this affair. My nerves never have sat well with this 'birth' phenomenon." He ran his hands through light blue hair, leaving trails where his fingertips had parted the shallow sea.

"I would never have guessed." Owain turned the handle, finally pulling open the large wooden barricade.

"'Bout time you showed!" A rough, deep voice snapped at the pair. Owain couldn't see through the now-darkened evening, so he was at a loss.

"Maribelle? Do you . . . have a cold, perchance?"

"It's me, ya bozo! Now let us in, the midwife's havin' a hernia."

Owain chuckled, gesturing cordially for the agitated young man to enter the house. "Lead her upstairs, Brady, would you?"

"'Course, Owain. That's what I'm here for. Hey, Ma?"

"Yes, Brady?" A dainty voice answered, and Owain glimpsed the tip of a parasol somewhere behind Brady.

"You got any of them treats the little tyke likes? I ran out yesterday."

Maribelle sighed, "You spoil that little Inigo, you know. The man himself also spoils his younger twin. Quite unbecoming, really. Honestly, that is _no way_ to raise nobility!"

Brady shrugged. "Ya got 'em or not?"

Brady jerked as he was smacked on the head with the parasol. "Humph! I most certainly do, but you're not getting them until you answer me like a dignified human being."

Cringing, the eager-to-appease man acquiesced. "Can I please have the bag o' pasties?"

Maribelle tutted. "_May _I. 'May I please have the bag of pasties.' Repeat after me, now."

Owain leaned against the doorframe, blonde hair falling into his eyes, chuckling. _Things never change._

"Ma-a? Do we really hafta do this _now_?"

"If not now young man, when?"

"When your best girl's not givin' birth?"

The lady noble gasped, pushing her son aside and barreling up the stairs.

Grinning, Brady held up the satchel he had snatched from his mother's belt loop in her oblivious distress. "Got the goods. Wait . . . what are you laughing at?" The violinist gave Owain a suspicious glance, seeing the mirthful flush on his friend's cheeks.

Clearing his throat, Owain shrugged noncommittally. "Nothing." After turning towards the stairs, Owain gestured with a nod towards the fresh air outside the open door. "I think it'd be wise for us to stay out there, to be honest."

Brady nodded. "Right you are, bud. Let's leave that baby-birthing stuff to the adults, yeah?"

"We're as old as they are, Brady . . ." Shaking his head – clearly Brady didn't feel the same way about the "other" generation as Owain did – the sage smiled. "Yeah." It felt good to hear his friend's thuggish dialect again. Seemed to be years since they had last spoken, even though Owain knew only a few weeks had passed.

They both turned to Virion, who was doing his best not to awkwardly shuffle like a child filled with pent up urine. "May I remain with you, my _fine_ gentlemen?" The archer's eyes grew large as a puppy dog's.

"No." The fine gentlemen replied simultaneously. Virion sighed, then trudged up the stairs.

"Let's go, shall we?" Owain wanted to explore the town while he could, and maybe he'd stumble upon Nocht on the street. _Yeah, _that's_ likely._

Brady nodded. "After you."

* * *

"Dieter, we need to leave."

Chuckling, Dieter wiped his brow, forcing the two arms of the bellows together. The heat from the oven made his face red as the fire. Severa couldn't help but blush, herself. The way his muscles bulged beneath the thin confines of his shirt – well, it was enough to make a girl forget her duty.

"We have to get to Ylisse," she snapped, irritated that he could make her feel this way. "Not bake some . . . _pastry_ while this Nocht makes herself known! Nila said that if she rallies the troops –"

"Yes, yes," Dieter used the bellows one last time; a huge, moaning breath emanated from the throat of the contraption. "I'm just making us some breakfast, Severa. No need to get huffy."

He laughed to himself again, pleased with the pun.

"Ugh! You're so annoying!" Severa stomped her foot on the marble tile of the kitchen, striding away with a purpose. "Fine. I'll go myself."

"Hey, now." Letting go of the bellows, Dieter admired his handiwork. The small flaky breadstuffs were oozing raspberry cream out of small slits he had cut on the top layer. _Perfect._

Grabbing a towel, Dieter quickly removed the rack from the fire, placing it on the stone countertop with the fervor of a chef in their prime. "My creation!"

Severa snorted, but the delicious, succulent smell chased away the last remnants of her irritation.

As he gazed at the beautiful, buttery crust exuding thick red liquid, Severa noticed a sickening smile spread across the Knower's handsome face. _It's like blood, _he thought. _Beautiful, glistening. _Seeing it in the light, just so, as the magical fires bestowed upon it its very own spotlight – he couldn't help himself. Slowly opening a drawer, he reached for a knife. A grating whine echoed throughout the tiled room, complimenting the roaring of the fire, as he slid the blade from the others. The raging orange and red glinted off steel, and reflected onto his depraved face, framing sharp cheekbones and deeply-set eyes. Spellbound, his finger traced the blade, letting jeweled drops fall upon one of the confections. Seeing his own blood, his heart quickened, and he could no longer resist. Closing his eyes, he slid the knife along the small, bulging pastry. As it split - the belly of a man, insides bursting out of skin, slowly pooling on the metal sheet- the smile grew wider, into a grin that split his face the way a chasm splits the earth, unnatural and terrifying. "So beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."

Severa couldn't move. Cold sweat raced down her back, igniting her spine with burning ice. She tried to back away, as slowly as possible. She had never seen him like this, Dieter. She'd thought he was okay. His blue eyes were so intelligent, so _knowing. _And his smile . . .

Severa's breath caught. His smile so perverted, so twisted, it was all she could do to quickly place her fingertips upon her lips to hold in the threat of bile. But she couldn't, not when his features succumbed to a tide of pure ecstasy. All over her new shoes, polished leather hide, her sick fell. The smell was enough to make her gag again. But it broke the trance, and she ran. Ran to the bathroom of Nila's temple, where she locked the door. Falling onto the ground, warm tears fell upon cold stone. "Nila? Nila, what _is _he?"

* * *

Owain sighed, almost tripping over the final step from his mother's house.

"Easy there, tiger." Brady steadied him by the shoulder, then pushed him out towards the trees. "Take a look at that, would ya? I see something shining over there."

With despondent eyes, Owain complied, moving towards a gleaming . . . brooch? It was a beautiful leaf, carved out of rose gold and inlaid with small green gems famous in Chon'sin. _That's Nocht's!_

He rushed forward, seeing her leaning against the base of an old oak, carving symbols into the bark with her nail. "Hey, Owain. I thought that sigh was yours."

He stood, mouth agape, while Brady caught up.

Surprisingly, Brady was better able to push aside his shock in order to form a coherent question. "Nocht! W-what are you doin' here?! I didn't know you were back!" Brady quickly stood to help up the small woman, while Owain still loitered.

"Are you . . . are ya alright, Nocht? Ya look like you've been sleeping."

Waving away his concerns, Nocht patted Brady on the shoulder. "Thanks, bud. Where's the Ma?"

"S-she's inside." Small pools began to coalesce at the corners of his eyes, and he threw himself at the already-teetering woman. "Nocht! I've missed you so much! We've all missed ya, a-and when Chrom remarried, it was like he sealed the deal, ya know? And then –"

"Whoa, there." Nocht patted him again, reassuringly. Owain watched as Nocht smiled. Simply smiled. She'd been gone all day, and they'd just found her half-dead against a tree, and here she was, smiling like nothing was wrong. _Oh-o, don't think I didn't notice that hand you've been hiding behind your back. I can practically hear the blood dripping onto the leaves. _She continued. "Slow down." She ruffled Brady's head affectionately, then smiled once again at Owain.

Seeing her friend's dark expression, Nocht quickly sensed something amiss. She could feel her hand like dead weight behind her, and she knew Owain was observant enough to notice the trail it'd left on her robes. But she couldn't take his questions, right now. Those deep, pale green eyes were too smart for their own good, so she turned back to Brady. "I think Lissa's in there, but it probably won't be good for me to see her. Since she's . . . well, she's busy."

The cheerful violinist laughed through his tears, wiping them away with his knuckles. "It's alright. Owain and I were gonna go for a walk. You wanna come? So we can talk, and . . . catch up?"

Nocht hastily tucked some loose hair behind her ear, only to have it fall back over her cheek. Glancing at the churning eyes next to her, she quickly lowered her gaze again. _Why do I feel _guilty? _What is there to feel _guilty _about? _

_Is it . . . Is it because I went without him?_

"Yes, Nocht. Let's talk."

The heated gaze was tangible; she could feel it on her face, her hair, her stooped and defeated shoulders. Finally, the brooding figure moved behind her. No doubt to push her towards wherever it was these guys wanted to go, she thought.

_Oh, jeez. _Looking around for an escape route, she cursed to herself. _There's no blazing escape from those eyes – _

Suddenly, she felt warm fingers gently take her injured hand. She smelled healing magic; sweet, but with an unexpected and odd lingering of musk. Turning her about, those same warm, strong hands now took both of hers.

"When – " She cleared her throat, not wanting Owain to notice how high-pitched her voice had become. "How'd you learn how to do that? Without a staff?"

"I don't know. I didn't know I could." In a softer voice: "What happened, Nocht? Why was your hand . . ."

_Mangled? Shredded? _Nocht sighed, leaning the side of her head against the tree. _I lost my mind. I was someone else. _Another sigh:"I don't know, either, Owain. Let's just go home."

Brady, shifting awkwardly, wanted to retreat. "Right! It's great seein' ya, Nocht! Maybe we could get together sometime, you know, at that place on Main Street ya used to love."

Leaning to the other side so she could see past Owain's broad shoulders, Nocht's teeth once again shined in the night. "I'd like that."

* * *

It was a week later, with not much going on. Nocht had been mostly holed up in Owain's study. Whenever Owain asked about the castle, Nocht turned away, trying to avoid the question. She still hadn't visited Lissa and Henry, and for the life of him, Owain couldn't fathom why.

As he was sitting, slowly going through his latest novel, checking the last chapter for any discrepancies, Nocht came into the room.

His mood immediately brightened, and he made a vow with himself. _I'll ask her again. And I won't let her get away from the inquiry._

"So, when do you plan on telling me what happened?"

"Oof!" Nocht couldn't contain the rush of air that left her lungs as she threw herself upon the sofa.

After a moment of silence, she grimaced, seeing the determined look on his face. "Hopefully, never."

Downcast, Owain's hair fell into his eyes as despondence caused him to hang his head. "After all we've been through, you still won't tell me?"

Nocht laughed, patting his leg. "'All we've been through?' Really? A guilt trip? What happened there doesn't matter, anyway. It's not relevant to the task at hand. So we –"

"And just what _is _this task, Nocht? What does Chrom need from you now? You've already written that speech for him, when he wanted to address the public about Lyram, and even his draft 'invitations' that he sent to all the shepherds. What's all the correspondence been about, these past few days?"

Startled by his bitterness whenever he spoke of Chrom, she fidgeted minutely. "You told me a 'threat is brewing in the South', so that's what we've been observing. I'm going to the palace tomorrow to consult with the King in person. Once we form a plan of attack, then, maybe, this ridiculous affair will be dealt with in a timely fashion."

"'Timely fashion?'" Now Owain was truly aghast. "What jargon has that fool of a king planted in your head? _He _may want things solved as quickly as possible, but this is an insidious affair! You can't sweep it under the rug and hope it'll never resurface."

"So what do you propose I do?" Irritated, Nocht looked up into cold, green eyes. She had never seen such cynical anger in his expression. Held by astonishment, she forgot her own annoyance. "Owain, what's wrong?"

He turned away, "Nothing, Nocht." Owain didn't want to admit that her epistolizing with Chrom and not even telling himself anything about it hurt him more than he could describe. Washing away his own anger as well as he could, Owain tried to adopt a neutral tone. "Please, continue."

_If he wants the story . . . so be it. Isn't that why he's angry with me?_ Instead of continuing, Nocht's voice fell into a whisper. "I couldn't take it, Owain. I saw him, standing before me, like a fallen god, and I – I . . ."

She clenched her fists, nails biting into skin with relish. "I couldn't face him. So I looked for Lucy." For a long while, the pair sat in silence. Crickets made a symphony in the night, and a weak drizzle of rain added auxiliary percussion to the composition. "And then I found her."

Slowly, Owain took Nocht's hand, gently relaxing her fingers. Looking down at their entwined hands, Nocht took a deep breath, then resumed. "I looked away, and there was a hallway, with an orb of dark magic. I touched it, and then I must've fallen unconscious."

"Unconscious? But you were by the trees, near the gate."

Cursing his quick wit, she shrugged. "I don't remember anything after touching that orb. I woke up in the copse, and thought I heard you. Then I fell asleep again."

Astounded, Owain shook his head. "That's amazing. A dark magic orb? Like a singularity?"

Shrugging, she sighed. "Something like that."

He knew there was something Nocht wasn't telling him, but he didn't want to push her. Owain was also still surprised by how easily his mood had fluctuated; how sensitive he was to her words.

"I'm sorry, Owain. I know you've helped me through my . . . recent emotional turmoil," her smile was brilliant in the badly lit room, and for a moment, Owain was breathless, "I just . . . didn't want to think about it, I guess."

Trying to hide his newly found ineloquence, Owain simply nodded in a staccato fashion. _How can she smile so easily, with such sincerity?_

A fierce wailing interrupted the natural symphony, and the pair's heads turned towards the door simultaneously.

"Henry, you're holding him wrong! See, he's crying."

"Liss, relax, will ya? They're tears of joy, I bet."

Lissa snorted in response, though the snide remark she made was muffled by the thick wooden door.

"They sure sound familiar." Owain's signature grin made Nocht's heart race, and it was all she could do to respond.

"Indeed."

Outside, a squabble raged on.

"No! He's going to be a sage, not a sorcerer! We've already talked about this!"

"But look at those eyes! The eyes of a killer, nya ha!"

Opening the door with exuberance, Owain cleared his throat. "You know, you should let the kid decide for himself."

With a chuckle, Nocht hastily stood, walking over to greet her old friends. "Good evening, you two. How goes the child rearing?"

Lissa gasped, and Henry almost dropped the baby.

"_Nocht!_"

* * *

Lissa sat regally, with her hand clasped in both of Henry's, and the baby in the crook of her other arm, drooling as babies do.

"Sorry we're early, Owain."

Nocht's eyebrows raised. _Early for what? _She asked Owain with her eyes.

But he just smiled, and questioned his parents about their escapades of late.

After a while, the topic came to rest upon current events.

"I mean, when Chrom was speechifying about those Chantries and stuff, we had no idea what he was talking about. And then there was the speech Cordelia gave us about a democracy! I had no idea of the correlation until we saw that _horrible _rally! Truly, it was savage. Terrifying. They all hate the Exalted bloodline simply because they are the ruling body. Thankfully, I don't have the mark, so they let me through those barricades at the front of the town. But then there was this _Dieter_! He actually recognized me! So he comes at us, a sadistic grin on his face, and slices –"

"Oooh, yeah! I remember! I got my arm sliced up good. So pretty . . . in the sunset. My blood looked orange!"

Lissa grimaced. "At least we got a staff out of it. Some old guy – "

"Yes, with a beard. I remember." Owain sat at the edge of his seat. "What about Dieter? Where did he go after he assaulted you?"

Henry and Lissa both shrugged. It seemed they didn't really want to talk about it. Either that, or they didn't know.

Nocht observed them.

The blonde-haired sage looked great as a new mother: flushed cheeks and peppy smiles abound. Henry wasn't doing too badly, either. In fact, the way he looked at the week-old – such loving in those eyes - you'd never think he was practically a sadistic killer on the battlefield.

Nocht watched the young Owain warily, hoping he wouldn't get his drool all over the dress Lissa was wearing. Ironically, that dress had been a gift from Nocht, herself, a few years ago. _Several years, more like. Lucky her, she can still fit into it. I couldn't squeeze into half the stuff I had after giving birth._

"I just . . . I can't believe it!" Lissa still had tears in her eyes, but a joyous smile was also present. Henry patter her affectionately.

"Hey, I can't either! Where've you been, friend? What's the other side like?" Henry asked the last with gusto, truly wanting to know what death was.

"It's . . . dark. Just very, very dark. Truly, I don't think it was death." Nocht smiled to herself. "At least, it doesn't match what Libra describes."

"Yeah, well, everyone knows priests don't know what they're talking about."

"Henry!" But Lissa couldn't stifle a giggle. She leaned into her husband, resting her head upon his shoulder. Seemingly unconsciously, Henry brought his arm around Lissa.

Nocht's heart softened, seeing them so close. She had always known they were meant for each other. Though Lissa never realized it until she fell asleep on the guy.*

They eventually moved from the living room into the kitchen, casually strolling through the rooms as party-goers tend to. Nocht reached into the cupboard for a few plates. "Are you two hungry? I cooked dinner a little while ago. Steak, I think. I'm not sure what else I made." Curiously, Henry lifted a lid off one of the three pots on the stove.

"Whoa, you can't even remember making all this? There's enough here for a whole army!" He drew in a few sniffs. "Oh-o, man! I smell whiskey!"

Nodding, Nocht glanced at the pan. "Yup, that'd be the sauce. Beef broth, ground peppercorns, whiskey, and a dash of cream. It's pretty good, if I do say so myself."

Nocht quickly put two and two together, and figured out why Owain wanted her to cook so much food. _He knew we'd have visitors._

Lissa laughed. "You barely remember cooking it, but you avidly remember tasting it."

Feigning surprise, Nocht grinned. "Of course. Taste-testing's always the most memorable part."

The group laughed, and Henry turned towards Nocht, putting the lid back over the pan with a slight _tink_. "You're really back, aren't you? It's like you haven't even changed."

She was startled by how deeply his gaze bored into her, and Nocht realized where Owain's philosophical outlook came from. "No worries! That's a good thing," he assured her, smiling. Nocht rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously.

Taking a step toward her son, Lissa nodded in the direction of Nocht, then offered Owain a wink. "She's a good cook, huh? Has she been with you a while?"

Flinging his hands about in quick denial, Owain shook his head. "It's not like that! She just didn't have a place to stay, since her home . . ."

Lissa's face contorted. "Yes, I see." Sighing, she bounced the baby a few times. "Well, I'm glad she's being taken care of by such a nice young man."

Owain sighed. "Thanks, Mom."

A tsunami of sounds washed over them through the open window over the sink. "Brady, I can't believe you tried to come without me! I want to see her, too, I'll have you know!"

"I know, Ma, but you didn't see the darkness in her eyes. Really, I figured after practically coming back from the dead, she'd want as little visitors as possible."

"Nonsense! She used to love visitors." The pair travelled by the window, traversing the small path around the house, searching for the door.

Upon finding it, the wooden barricade was pulled open by the woman in question. "It's good to see you, Maribelle. And you, as well, Brady."

More tears, more smiles. Another reunion. Nocht grew weary of the social ramifications due to being a "risen", as Morgan had jokingly dubbed her. _Where is that boy, anyway?_ She absently answered their questions, gradually becoming less and less interested. Their concern was touching. But also annoying. She had to prepare for the meeting tomorrow.

Much to her irritation, another knock resounded through the gathered comrades. _What, now? Was this what Lissa was early to? A party Owain concocted? Will I never retire to the study? I need to formulate a response to Chrom's question. "Are you prepared?" he asked me. I don't know, Chrom. At this rate, I never will be. Emotionally, or otherwise._

Lucina walked through the door, dragging a reluctant Gerome through with her. Morgan also followed, a small smile lighting up his young face.

"Ah, so this is why Owain sent the invitation," Gerome's voice was amused, which was funny, because his expression was anything but.

With a sudden turn, Nocht eyed Owain as he jovially moved through the house. _I should've known. His place has been cleaner than usual, lately. Plus, I saw him writing on some small squares of parchment earlier in the week. Why didn't I see it before?_

They all commenced conversing. Nocht tried to be interested, but couldn't. She ended up sighing. _Yes, yes, it's all quite interesting. Now please leave. _

But she didn't have the heart to say that to her guests. Instead, she pasted on a smile, and laughed along with the rest.

"Where's Ricken, Maribelle?"

"Oh, he needed to discuss something with Chrom." A wink from Maribelle. "He'll be here soon, though."

"How's the young Brady?"

"Oh! Fine, fine, he's being taken care of by this wonderful wet-nurse – related to the midwife Henry contacted for Lissa's delivery – and she's absolutely grand."

"What's the word around town? . . . Oh, really, she said that? . . . No, I could never imagine . . . Yes, yes, I see." _How long is this going to go on for? _"Excuse me."

Nocht retreated to the bathroom, locking herself in. Sure, she felt badly, because she had been especially close to Maribelle towards the end of the campaign – Nocht was the one who had set up Ricken and Maribelle, at that little tea house on Main Street after all – but still. She couldn't take anyone anymore.

If how often the front door could be heard opening and closing was any indication, she could tell it was going to be a long night.

Sinking into the corner of the room, she held her face in her hands. After a few long breaths, she slowly started to drift. Her thoughts wandered, and eventually, she fell asleep.

A knock awakened her.

"Wha-at?" She whined.

The lock jumbled around a bit, the handle dancing. After a moment, the door opened, revealing a serious-faced Gaius.

At first, his expression was dark and foreboding – Nocht couldn't even guess at the thoughts that swam about his mind – but it quickly changed into a relieved smile. "Nocht. It really _is_ you."

"What are you doing in _here_," he pointed with his lockpick at the floor of the bathroom like a concerned but stern father, "instead of out _there_?" He now gestured towards the rambunctious crowd gathered outside the bounds of her small sanctuary. Panne was there, with Gregor. Kellam as well, accompanied by a crying Nowi. Nah and Yarne were having a scintillating conversation on the couch, with Gerome nodding every so often in agreement – whether he was aligned with Yarne or Nah, Nocht couldn't tell.

She groaned.

"Oh, don't give me that, girlie. Come on, now, up and at 'em."

Much to her surprise, he picked her up, letting her head rest on his chest. "My, you've gained some weight, haven't you?"

"That tends to happen when you die. Your body swells up and everything."

He shook his head with a laugh, and the sound reassured her. "Crivens, I'll never understand you, Nocht."

As he walked towards the couch on which he planned to deposit her, she wondered aloud. "How've you been, Gaius?"

"I'm touched you care, Bubbles. I was kinda wondering if you did at all, what with the hiding in the broom closet not wanting to see anyone."

"It wasn't a _broom closet, _exactly . . ."

He noticed her grimace was that of a guilty woman, and he smiled. "I'm just messing with you. I'm sure all this may be . . . difficult. But at least the dessert Stahl brought doesn't taste like garbage."

"_Stahl's_ here? I don't think I made enough food, then."

Gaius made an agreeable grunt. "That guy could eat a pegasus and still have room for pie." He stopped a moment, thinking. Then continued, "The whole gang's here . . . Well, except for your cheating boyfriend, and all."

Taken aback by yet another bitter tone – _is everyone so cynical now? - _ Nocht looked up at Gaius, really seeing him. A shadow of rugged stubble textured his jaw, and his eyes were downcast, with slight dark crescents beneath. He looked much older than she remembered. "Are you alright, Gaius? Did something happen?"

"Who, me? Heh . . . I'm great, now that you're back."

The sounds of the mass of people crowding in Owain's cabin were loud enough to induce a wince from Nocht. Pinching the crown of her nose, she silently pleaded to return to the bathroom.

In response to Gaius' blatant dodge, Nocht nodded dubiously. Deciding to push it aside for the time being, she gave him a loving pat. "Well, I'm glad you could make it, Gaius."

"Me too, Bubbles." He dropped her on the couch opposite the one Nah was conversing on.

Everyone stared.

Nocht glared at Gaius. He shrugged, then winked.

Nocht noticed Ricken, who had finally arrived, walking over to Maribelle. Giving her a peck on the cheek, he whispered something in her ear. Maribelle's face turned into a steaming hot iron, and she self-consciously adjusted her hair just a bit. She looked delighted, nonetheless, with a self-appreciating smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. _That dress _does _look pretty good. Nice choice, Maribelle. _Brady grimaced, then rejoined the conversation with Gerome and company. But they weren't paying attention to Brady.

No, they were looking at Nocht.

Everyone's eyes were upon her like the weight of dead bodies, pushing her further into the cushions of the couch. Some were confused, some overjoyed. She noted an especially expressive pair of deep brown eyes. They seemed to belong to Frederick, but Nocht wasn't sure. Such _understanding _was present in them, it was hard for her to believe a man could have such a compassionate and empathetic feeling for a woman whom he'd never really liked - only respected. _But that's better than liking, isn't it? Much more sincere._

She suddenly realized they probably wanted a speech, or something or other.

With an inward curse, Nocht stood up, readying to address the crowd. She looked into each and every one of the adoring faces that watched her. _Adoring? More like worshipful_, Nocht noted with a chuckle, when her gaze landed on Tharja. Nodding to the gathered comrades-in-arms, she addressed them as Chrom would before they headed into battle. She had never been presented with the "pleasure" of rallying the troops; Chrom had always done that. She was his spell-slinging partner, making her assault from behind the front lines - holding the spotlight did not come naturally to her. Besides, she'd always been afraid of speaking in public. But hiding behind Chrom was no longer an option.

"We all know what happened. Some of us are surprised at the turn of events the Exalt has told us of, some of us find it hard to care," at this, there were some laughs, "but besides all that, I can tell, just from the hope in your faces at seeing me alive, we still have the bonds that we forged so long ago. I thank Owain for inviting you all here, on this day. It is truly humbling to find so many of my friends are sympathizers of my cause . . . well, humbling, but it sure strokes my ego, too" more laughs, "but I need you to know that I hold no ill feelings for what happened. It couldn't be helped. And if we are to face the threat of a hedonistic nation so many admire, well, I'm happy to do it with friends like you at my side." Finding a glass on the table that wasn't hers, she picked it up anyway. Holding it upwards, she uttered a final sentence, "I love each and every one of you, and no matter the trials ahead, I look forward to stumbling through another abyss, with my best friends to help me up whenever I may fall and crack my skull open."

The crowd cheered, clearly moved by her chuckle-inducing impromptu speech. She caught Gaius's eye, and was suddenly taken back to the moment when he'd wished at something more between the two of them. At the time, she'd only had eyes for Chrom. It had taken months, but Gaius and Chrom eventually became . . . not friends, exactly, but they each held a deep understanding of one another. She looked away quickly, wanting to forget that tumultuous first year. That was a long time ago, and she needn't revisit it. She and Gaius were good friends - perhaps he was even one of the closest friends she'd ever had. Which was funny, because she usually seemed unable to keep things platonic between herself and close male friends. _Just look at Chrom and I. Yeah, like starting out as close friends who accidentally stumble upon each other in the bath wouldn't lead to anything more._

Raising her glass in salute, she brought it down to her lips to take a deep swig - and all drank the mulled wine as one.

**Author's Trivial Note: I've been noticing a **_**huge**_** Greek influence on the English versions of Fire Emblem games. I mean, Myrmidons, Pegasi, Priam . . . I could go on. Is Ancient Greece an Outrealm or something? Or were the translators just assuming that no one reads Homer nowadays? Anyways, sorry for the long wait. Let's hope it doesn't take me ten years to come out with the next one. **

**P.S. Henry has one of the best death quotes in the game (Classic version, of course. Not Casual). Just saying. It fits his English-version personality perfectly.**

***See their romance, Support C.**


End file.
